Laer o Faen
by Eirian1
Summary: A near fatal encounter with the Serpents of the North leaves the Greenwood the Great's queen with but one choice, one that cost her own life, but she makes a promise to her beloved King, born of a love that has already lasted through more than an age of Middle Earth, and remains the only hope to warm a heart fallen behind a wall of despair. (Mingled Movie/book canon. 1st - 4th Age)
1. Dadwenathan le

**Laer o Faen **

One

_Dadwenathan le, fae nín. Gwestan im an le men hirathan. __Dartho an im… Melethron... faeraranuir nín!_

The storms that had raged for days abated earlier that day, but bringing scant relief, and evening descended early with a viciousness that embraced Eryn Galen with more than just an absence of light. It felt more like a bitter surrender and it filled Celyndailiel with a fear that she had never before felt. She could not settle, no matter what she did, as if she could still hear the thunder, sense the lightning that had split the sky, because it had settled inside of her.

She put aside the book, the pages of which she'd been staring at, unseeing, since before dusk fell and climbing to her feet, walked slowly toward where her young son rested, seeking comfort there.

It wasn't to be.

Though she found joy in her son, in running her fingers through his golden hair, and the softness of his answering smile, the growing dread that had been growing in her heart took hold, and with it, a dimming of the light in which she had happily dwelt through all the ceaseless centuries of her life.

In its dimming she felt herself becoming unaccustomedly chilled, and then, as though from afar, she thought she heard an Elven horn, sounding out a cry of wanting in the gathering night. At its second sounding, she recognised the note of her husband's battle horn, but that could not be – for her beloved was far away to the north; called away to campaign against the ever present Shadow that stalked the heart of all the Eldar, and sought dominion over all the free folk of Middle Earth. Yet… doubt began to stalk her spirit and without thinking, she reached out along the bonds of their matrimony, seeking his mind, his soul… prepared only to meet the steel of his denial. Never, when he was in battle, would he allow her that closeness, meaning, she knew, to shelter her from the horrors of war as he always had, in his many ways. She expected to be rebuffed, but this time there was something else… a terrible pain she met in place of that mental barricade – an absence.

_Lau…_

Almost before the horn sounded a third time – and closer then – she found her feet, hushing her son, and bidding him remain as he was. Then in haste, unmatched in all her years she began the long descent toward the outer courtyard, gathering ladies and stewards at her heels, reaching the doorway just as the first of the horses clattered into the paved enclosure.

"My Queen," Her husband's second dismounted. His usually measured, calm movements seemed hurried and discordant. It sped her steps toward him, but as she reached the foot of the stair, shook his head.

"Stay back, my lady," he said, his voice trailing off as he added, "You cannot…"

She had already ceased to hear him. Movement beyond him drew her eye away, and a litter carried between four armoured Elves passed beneath the arch and into the courtyard, and on the litter, a figure, motionless – dim in her sight – lay covered and yet, peeking from beneath the shrouding cloak, she recognised the tooling on the armour, and the dread she carried heavily within her struck like a viper, swift and full of poison.

She cried out wordlessly, and felt the arms of the king's second wrap around her waist, lifting her from the ground before she even realised she had moved again, and she fought to escape his restraint.

"He lives," the Elven warrior told her, his words gasped with the effort of restraining her. "Though barely."

"Let me _go!_" she demanded, and breaking suddenly free, let out another, inarticulate cry as she flew the distance between them, to her husband's side.

She fell to her knees beside the litter, feeling his failing life as the absence she had faced as she had reached for his mind. She drew back the cloak with which they had covered him and recoiled, letting go a third, most wretched cry as she saw the ruin that was left of him. Clear half of his body was scorched and mangled – his arm and hip, his leg and torso a bloody ragged mess, and above his mangled shoulder, the burned remnants of his once beautiful face seeped blood and matter onto the cloak on which he lay.

"Husband!" she cried, slipping her hand into his right, and squeezing its lifelessness. "Thranduil! My heart!"

* * *

_"Dan emyn!"_

_He heard his strongly voiced order taken up and repeated along the line of warriors by unit commanders, and the slow turn of the Elven line became apparent. Throwing back his cloak he lifted his gaze to the withered line of the horizon and the dark shape there; one that grew rapidly. His people were not moving fast enough._

_ "Dan emyn!" he repeated, slashing his way through a line of foul orc filth to reach the loyal guards at the front of his line. His free hand gripped the shoulder after shoulder of his warriors as he all but pulled them back, taking their place; giving them time – protecting his people. "Bado i-ered! Gwao hi!"_

_ "My lord!" Another's hand caught his _own_ shoulder, pulled _him_ back, much as he had been sending his warriors on their way. "You must retreat with the others. You cannot remain here!"_

_ He shook off the restraint of his second, and turning pushed_ him_ in the direction of the hills._

_ "I _will not _leave my valiant here to suffer and die. Not while I have strength," he snarled. "Go. I will follow when they are clear."_

_ "But my King," His second started to protest, and then in greater alarm, as a darkening of the air around them shadowed the ground, repeated, "My King!"_

_ Thranduil took in the expression on his second's face, then spun to face the direction of his horrified gaze. The sight made him redouble his efforts to send his warriors to safety. He had faced such horrors before, when the world was yet young, and a calm, rather than fear descended over him; a cold resignation that seemed to slow time around him._

_ "Drego," he ordered pushing elf after elf toward safety. "This foe is beyond you!"_

_ They scrambled to obey, though his loyal second fought to remain at his side, but Thranduil moved _toward_ the vast, vile shape of the Winged Serpent; fell dragon, a nightmare of legend and his blade glinted in the light of the creatures eyes, reflecting the glow of its inner fire as it gathered itself to let forth the stream of annihilation. Seconds only, he knew he had, and he slashed at it, driving it back with the deadly bite of _Heleglim_, lending him… lending all of them, precious moments._

_ Precious moments before the inevitable._

_ Rearing back, clear half mad with the pain and bite of the cold magic in the Elvenking's blade the dragon struck back, a snarling short burst of unspeakable fire following the raking slash of claws and Thranduil turned, an ineffectual defence against the devastation of flame that engulfed the left side of him, even as several desperate warriors, yet remaining at his side, sought to shield him, their King, and behind him, his second tried to pull him away._

_ The pain, unbearable, was mercifully brief, darkness descended, and feeling himself falling, as if into midnight, his only thought – his only regret – was that it had been tears he had last seen in her beautiful eyes._

_ "Celyn—"_

"—dailiel!"

A hand pressed to his shoulder, pushing him back against soft linens that were cool against his back.

"Do not move too much, Aran nín."

Galion's voice. He was home? Greenwood?

"Where is…?" His own voice was ragged with disuse, barely a whisper, trailed off, but if he were home, why then was it his steward's voice he heard, soothing him, curbing his desire to move.

"Here, Sire." A cool hand slipped beneath his shoulders, helped him to sit up against the pillow. Why was the room so dark, so unclear? "Take some water, my Lord."

The cup and the water were before him before he could protest, and in truth the water was cooling and welcome in his ragged throat, but after only a moment, he pushed it away.

"Celyndailiel?" he said, looking to Galion then, confused. Why was she not at his side?

"My Lord, you _must_ yet rest," Galion answered, refusing his question.

"Where is the Queen?" he pressed, fear colouring his tone as he let down his steely mental walls at last and reached for her… feeling… nothing – an absence.

_Do not be angry with me, my soul, you know I kept you away only for your own sake._

He sent the words out nonetheless… and waited for the rush of warmth that always followed in the touch of her mind, and for Galion to answer his question.

The absence of both, and the expression of the deepest grief upon the face of his steward told him all that he did _not_ wish to know; all that he _already_ knew.

Galion crossed the room to reach for a small, white wood box, carrying it reverently back toward Thranduil, setting the box into his trembling hands.

"She did… all that she could, my Lord," Galion said, his voice broken, "would not rest, barely enough to take breath until she was sure your heart would beat if she should release her hold upon you. She would allow no other hand to tend you, though we sent to Imladris for aid, for fear that they would fail, and when at last she could go on no more; when even Lord Elrond could lend her no more time to heal you further, she laid her head upon your chest and placed into your hand that which you will find cushioned within the box."

Galion's voice faltered as Thranduil unfastened the lid of the box, and found within… nestled on the deep blue cushion inside, the twin to the white star-opal ring that graced the index finger of his hand.

Galion whispered, "And with the last breath of her life, she bid me speak to you these words of her promise…"

* * *

Lau – no

Dan emyn! – Fall back to the hills

Bado i-ered! Gwao hi! – Head for the mountains! Go now!

Drego! – Flee!

Heleglim – Light of Ice (Thranduil's sword)

Aran nín – my King

The words at the header of the chapter are Celyndailiel dying promise to Thranduil, they translate (roughly) as, _I will return to you, my soul… I swear to you that I will find a way. Wait for me… my love… Eternally radiant king of my soul._

* * *

A/N – This story began its early development in conversation and planning and early work with my friend, Elaine. However, our ideas developed in two separate directions and my concept moved beyond the scope of our work together, so I went on to develop my story separately. I'd like to thank my friend for her unparalleled help and her contribution to the initial spark; for setting me off on this path and making me determined to write as I have. I'd also like to acknowledge and thank my friend, Nancy, for her unfailing strength and help. Where a certain Elvenking is concerned, I couldn't have done it without them.

I don't own any but the original characters, I just take them out and play with them from time to time. Many thanks Papa Tolkien, and also many thanks to the creative genius of Peter Jackson, Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens et al for their part in the inspiration of this work of fiction.

I'm attempting the impossible of course – a strange, unique blend of Movie and True Canon, while writing this.

Mistakes in the Elvish (probably many) are entirely my own… apologies to the Elder Race. Translations (intended translations) are given below each chapter.


	2. Sui Rhoss Vin i Vorn

**Laer o Faen**

Two

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840

_Fae, sui rhoss vin i vorn, egor i charthad o ngilith am dhû ú ithil._

Sensing movement beneath the great branch on which she crouched, hidden in the folds of shadow between trunk and overhanging limb, Nieniriathlim froze, hardly daring to allow the breath from her body, without due consideration to silence.

Such also was the manner in which she slowly, like the march of an Age, drew the dark grey cloak tighter around her slender frame, careful to ensure that the hood fully covered her fall of silver-blonde hair.

How many days had she crouch in such a place, ever watchful, ever quiet – merging as one with the darkened branches of the overhanging trees – and never yet afforded such a clear view of the comings and goings from out of the Elvenking's Halls as this. As if by some awakening, the Elves of Woodland Realm, her estranged kin, were suddenly conjured to life in urgent execution of some unknown purpose.

Many there were, back and forth beneath the shelter of her hiding place. Some armed and armoured – Elite Guard who were among those brave warriors that guarded against the grown and ever growing Dark beneath the twisted bowers of the woodland. Mirkwood, they called it now, and had since ever she had been born, but once it claimed another name, one that set a lighter burden upon the hearts and minds of Elves such as her. She knew this… she _felt_ this.

_Golden-green light dappled the silver-white neck and mane of the horse she rode as the canopy above thinned to allow the sculpted and carved domes of the woodland settlement to reach to the air above. The wood's warmth breathed its welcome at her coming, as his mind touched hers._

_'Welcome home, my soul.'_

Nieniriathlim gasped softly as the sight flashed atop the truth of that which she now looked down upon; as the words whispered into her mind as though true spoken to her, and at her gasp pressed herself closer to the trunk of the tree, holding tightly, squeezing her eyes shut tightly almost as if waiting for the voice that would call her down; demand explanation.

She had outstayed her welcome.

* * *

He dismounted as soon as he reached the thinning of the trees, sending the horse in with the forward patrol, and remaining with the rear-guard as they came in on foot.

_Take care of your soldiers, always._

His father had instilled the discipline in him, and it was a lesson that he had learned quickly and was always true to follow, even as the king himself had done in sending him ahead with half of the patrol… the other lesson served by what the Elvenking had done.

_Look to your people._

As he passed beneath one of the many overhanging branches, Legolas paused mid step. He cocked his head. Had there been a sound? A breath from the trees? He raised a hand, tempted to draw back his hood that he might better hear if some intruder – perhaps some agent of the Enemy – by some foul deed, misdirected their search and had beaten them back, spilling danger within the midst of his people when defence would be slower to answer. He stayed his hand, for doing so would mark him as a target, as Sindar amid the Sylvan Elves of the Woodland Realm. Instead he listened harder also reaching out with other senses, and neither hearing, nor feeling anything further, he turned to the herald who came out to meet the incoming guard.

"My prince?"

Legolas shook his head.

"Recall all outlying patrols," he ordered instead, "and strengthen the Border Guard. Prepare to close the gates."

The herald gave a nodded bow of obedience and understanding, and even as the Elf turned away, readying his horn, Legolas spared one last, curious glance up into the dim canopy of the trees, before turning away and heading for the bridge that led into the Halls.

* * *

All but ready to flee, Nieniriathlim felt the doubting gaze of the Elf below that pierced the shadow, almost to the very fibres of her cloak and silently prayed by all the stars above that his eyes should slide from her form and perceive her not.

_If _ever_ you held love for me, home-of-my-heart,_ she sent her appeal out into the heart of the very trees of the woodland themselves, _then shield me now. Give me not occasion to be discovered when I have yet seen so little._

Below her, the Elf turned away, and suddenly the wood was filled with sound and movement, as the herald's horn blew out a clear note into the deepening afternoon, and from here and there, Elves began returning along the pathways and trails.

She did not question her good fortune, simply pushed away from the niche in which she crouched, found her feet with the balanced poise of her Elven heritage, and all but flew, birdlike along the thick, gnarled limb, high above the woodland floor, only descending when she felt she was clear of any danger of discovery.

Once on the ground, she took a moment to catch her breath, and to still the conflict between relief and disappointment that flowed through her blood. Days and days had passed and still no sign or sight of the one haunting her visions… her dreams. All the Elves she had seen were clearly Elves of the woodland, sylvan elves with red or russet hair, dark of eye – Like her parents, and not for the first time, nor, she was sure, the last, she wondered how she, so unlike to them, could have come from their union. True, her mother was lighter of form than most others of her woodland kin, so perhaps there was some trace of other heritage, maybe from her mother's mother, but lately – as the dreams had grown stronger, and the emotions that came with them more fierce, she had become more and more disturbed by her mother's teasing nickname for her: _Pinahyaol_, little changeling.

Like a deer, her head few up as a trembling expectation in the air announced the coming of a host mere moments before a second horn took up an answering cry to the first. Then she felt the thrumming of swift, rhythmic hooves, and the leafy whisper of the passage of an Elven infantry ran like heartbeat through the forest floor. She tipped her head. Their path took them parallel and opposite to her direction, but she would have to cross their path; cross the path that led to the Forest Gate to reach her home. She had to hurry. If she took a diagonal path through the brush she would reach her crossing all the swifter, providing nothing ill reared up to hinder her passing. If it did, her desire to remain unseen would be moot, for if some foul creature were abroad within the reach and senses of the coming Elves, then they would seek it out – put it down…

"And likely you with it," she reminded herself softly, and with a breath she set her limbs to movement, choosing her path and with swift, soft steps she moved through the thick tangle of bramble, vine and branch, skirting or leaping over less savoury creepers and and weeds, catching a hand here and there upon thicker limbs to aid her turning, and running swift across larger, fallen logs that might otherwise have blocked her path until she came within sight at last of the voice within the canopy that was the patrolled pathway.

They were close, the Elven host, too close, and led by a small cavalry at gallop along the smooth, paved pathway. She would not stop in time to avoid being seen as they passed – and followed by the Elves on foot, she would surely be caught. She had but one choice: to keep going, to _speed_ her steps and hope to cross their path in the dimming light. By chance she might be thought some natural animal at flight from such a coming mass, and so, committed, she ran on, though the risk was great.

Twenty heartbeats, it would be close… mere feet would be between them when she crossed if she did not find a greater speed. Ten short breaths, and the path was within reach of her desperate flight.

The hood of her cloak caught, twisted in a bramble; pulled from her hair, and she stifled the short gasp that stole a precious moment as she reached behind even as she kept her steps forward, grasped the fabric and pulled it free, having no time to cover herself again before she burst onto, and across the pathway, barely a horse length away from the lead rider.

She did not stop. She did not dare.

* * *

Not half a stride ahead, something dashed across the track, and intent on the track much further on, Thranduil saw it only as a flash of white amid shadow across his path, disappearing into the depth of the forest in his peripheral vision.

It was not what he _saw_ that had him pull back on the reins, but the feeling that went through him, like a cold blade laid against his back, a chill of expectation that unbalanced his strength and had him pull too hard, too fast.

The stallion reared, calling to his rider in protest, but mastering the sudden rush of the disturbance that had fallen over him with the intensity of a of a winter squall, Thranduil gathered the rein to turn the stallion in place upon its hind legs. Letting the horse down, his ice-blue gaze peered beneath the trees, and listening he tried to track the fleeing creature – white amid shadow. The White Hart?

The rest of the patrol flowed around him, like a river around rock, and ever aware, he felt them moving onward, following his orders to return to the Halls, though his second did stop, and return to his side.

"My King?"

Still peering deep beneath the trees, he shook his head, uncertain how to answer, but drawing in the feeling that still lingered in every breath he took, his left hand trembled upon the rein. He clenched his fingers tighter until the leather bit deeply and painfully, to draw him back… draw him away from a hope too painful to entertain – even for a moment.

"King Thranduil?" his second repeated, more urgently, his request for a response, and with every fibre of control he possessed, Thranduil turned his head, and then his horse's head to face his captain.

"A spirit," he said softly, "Like a whisper in the dark, or the promise of starlight on a moonless night."

His captain frowned, and as abruptly as it had come, Thranduil shook off the mood, released his too hard grasp upon the rein, and ordered, clipped and business like, "Come, we must reach the Halls by nightfall."

And with barely another glance into the darkening trees, he put heels to horse, the lightest touch to speed him safety.

Yet… a melancholy settled over him then, and to the trees, falling into shadow at his back, he murmured, "I-varnol dan… ui u-bardh."

* * *

I-varnol dan… ui u-bardh – safety, but… never home.

The words at the head of the chapter match those spoken by Thranduil when questioned by his second as to what he thinks he has seen… _a spirit, like a whisper in the dark, or the promise of starlight on a moonless night._


	3. I Amar Dannen Di i Dhim

**Laer o Faen**

Three

Third Age of Middle Earth – 93

_Na onen teri ad pân i naeth o hen amar ammen ad erio or pân hain_

The slight shuffle of a booted foot shattered the pace of Celyndailiel's grief, and though she could not reach a state of calm, the mantle of queen settled over her trembling shoulders, and looking up at the litter bearers, forcing herself to her feet, though she did not let go of Thranduil's cold hand, she ordered, "Take him inside; up to the Northern Spire."

They began moving immediately, and as they reached the doorway she had no choice but to let go, but stayed near the litter as they carried Thranduil quickly up the winding pathway. As they went she began relaying desperate instructions to servants ahead.

"Lay a low fire in the hearth, set flagons of water either side to moisten the air, and draw back _all_ of the drapes at the windows."

"My Lady?"

At her side the King's Second queried her command.

"The room must be bathed in natural light – the stars, the moon… all of it," she answered, then to the servants again, she added breathlessly, "And bring all the healing supplies you can find. Go! You… run ahead, strip the bed and cover it with a fresh sheet of cotton only. Bring up water for washing. Hurry."

It took an age, and yet no time at all, to reach the Northern Spire, the highest point within the Halls of the Elvenking, and even as they set him down upon the newly stripped bed she turned to the one of the remaining servants.

"Help me with the laces of my gown," she instructed, turning her back so that the servant could reach them. She could not have her long sleeves trailing over him as she tried to help her husband, she would work in her shift if she must, but she would not leave him to the care of any other hand than her own. "I will need a sharp blade. The sharpest you can find, and a brazier of hot coal beside the bed."

"My lady, please," Thranduil's second tried to still her, calm her, but already the hurry and bustle of servants bringing the things she had ordered was becoming stifling and the only way she could stop herself from succumbing to it, and descending into a helplessness that would be deadly to both her, and her husband, was to keep moving; to act.

As she stepped out of her dress, as the servant picked it up and hurried away, she spared a glance toward the captain and snapped, "How many dead?"

As she waited for his answer she moved to sit on the side of the bed, by the insensate king, and taking up the blade she had requested, with trembling hands she began to cut away the burned and melted clothing from her husband's shattered form.

"You do not have to do this," the captain told her gently, as she revealed, little by little, the full horror of the terrible injuries Thranduil had suffered. Almost the entire left side of his face, his neck, his shoulder and his arm had been clawed and burned to bare sinew – almost to the bone. Major blood vessels were packed by silken linens by the field surgeon that had no doubt tended him before they moved him. The left side of his torso, his hip and his left leg, though less mortally burned, were serious enough, nonetheless, to have taken the life of all but the hardiest of folk.

"How many dead?" she repeated.

"There are other healers," he persisted, "and we have sent to Imladris for aid, we—"

"Answer me, Captain!" she snapped, the loss of control allowing out the sob her words had masked. Still working to free her husband from his melted armour, she made herself speak on. "How many of our kin lost their lives to this cause?"

"Many thousands were lost on the battlefield, my Lady," he answered her at last, his head lowered, "Elves and men and dwarves alike."

"And how many _more_ of our people gave their lives to bring him home?" she pressed, and glanced up at him, as he shook his head. "He barely draws breath, Faleron. Do you think he would _survive_ the time it will take for even the swiftest of horses to bring Lord Elrond here from Imladris?"

"But you—"

"I am his wife," she cut him off, "his _queen_. There _is_ no other than could reach him. Eru-!"

She broke off as the removal of his breastplate released a rush of fresh blood over her hands, soaking her shift where she leaned over him, and she quickly snatched up a herb infused silken cloth from the healing supplies to pack the open wound, whispering the hurried, trembling words of a '_stay'_ that would keep him from bleeding to his last heartbeat.

* * *

"…' Dadwenathan le, fae nín. Gwestan im an le men hirathan. Dartho an im… Melethron... faeraranuir nín!'"

Thranduil stared, his uncovered eye blurring with tears as Galion's soft voice repeated words that sounded _so_ alike to the phrasing his beloved light might have used, but he could not… _would_ not… believe.

He tried to sit up, pushing with both his injured and uninjured arms, embracing the intense pain that lanced through the whole of the left side of him as he moved. In the same moment throwing wide his mental bond with Celyn, desperately reaching for anything, any _hint_ of a connection that would belie Galion's words.

The physical pain was as an itch to the emotional agony that followed in the silence and absence that met his searching soul. The world became colourless, grey and without hope of life in a single instant, and with a cry that splintered the air to match his fracturing heart, he fell back against the pillows, launching the box, and the ring within away from him. It flew across the room with such force that the white wood box shattered against the wall beside the door.

He was aware – vaguely – that the door had opened, and that a figure had stooped as it came within the chamber; he heard the softly spoken command that sent Galion from the room, but he was so lost, more broken even than he had been when but a breath away from death, that he lacked the will to react to either fact.

"Leave us," Elrond's soft voice was the one that ordered Galion away, and the whisper of his footsteps brought him to within a breath of Thranduil. The king felt him carefully touch his fingertips to his uninjured shoulder.

He turned his head, slowly, letting out only a soft breath as testament to the hurt that pulled beneath the bandages. His gaze lifted to meet the deep concern in the Elven Lord's eyes. His sight remained dim, with half of his face still swathed in bandages, his left eye kept closed by the pressure of the pad that covered it. But in his expression he put all of his anguish, all of his pain, all of his unanswered questions, and he saw Elrond's eyes soften still further.

"She would not leave your side," Elrond began, speaking slowly, reverently. "Not even to see to her own needs and comfort. Every moment, every breath she took; every word or thought she uttered, it was in love of you; for your salvation."

His lips parted as if to release the words that came and went from his mind, but which he could not utter. Where was the point? What was the world without her in it?

He felt his lips tremble as the despair made his already laboured breath harder yet to catch. Felt the barest brush of warmth, subtle but unmistakably there as Elrond reached to anchor him.

"No," he breathed, the word long, drawn out and plaintive. "Elrond, let me go."

"I cannot."

"Close the drapes," he all but begged the other Elf. "Shut me from all light and let me go. The world is but pale shadow without her, and I am but a speck of _dust_ within it."

He felt the strength of Elrond's fingers close around his own as the Elven Lord took his hand, and he clung to him, terrified of his own despair, like a child lost in the dark.

"Ai, Thranduil," Elrond whispered softly, leaning down to him. "Na onen teri ad pân i naeth o hen amar ammen ad erio or pân hain. You _must_ live. Celyn knew this."

Thranduil let out a sobbing breath.

"Your people need you," Elrond said with earnest urgency. "Your _son_ needs you."

"He needs his mother," Thranduil ground out through clenched teeth.

"He _has_ his father."

"He has lived but _six_ years! They doted on one another, Elrond," Thranduil all but implored the other Elf. "It was a joy to behold. How can I even _hope_ to replace that?"

"You cannot," Elrond answered and shook his head, "You _need_ not. You are his father, and Legolas loves you."

Thranduil closed his eyes, everything in him _aching_ with the effort of simply _being_; of breathing, of each successive heartbeat. It would be so easy just to let go.

"I amar dannen di i dhim," he whispered.

"The more reason that it needs you in it," Elrond answered softly. "If you will not trust me, then trust Celyn. She loved you."

"Why?" he breathed.

"She was wiser than all of us," Elrond answered softly. "Wiser than we know."

For a long time, Thranduil remained still, silent, drifting in shadow and in loss, until Elrond softly touched his shoulder once more, and he felt the soft release of the hold Elrond's light had upon his own. For a moment, he almost panicked, and gripped the other Elf's hand more tightly still. Then becoming aware of movement, he opened his eye; turned his gaze toward Elrond and saw that he held out Celyn's marriage ring.

With a long slow sigh, and an even longer blink, he shook his head, and releasing Elrond's hand pushed Elrond's fingers closed over the ring.

"Keep it," he whispered, his lips trembling once again in the pain of her loss. When Elrond did not move he pushed at the hand, pressing it closer to Elrond's chest, and repeated even softer. "Keep it."

* * *

Dadwenathan le, fae nín. Gwestan im an le men hirathan. Dartho an im… Melethron... faeraranuir nín - I will return to you, my soul… I swear to you that I will find a way. Wait for me… my love… Eternally radiant king of my soul.

Na onen teri ad pân i naeth o hen amar ammen ad erio or pân hain - It is given to some of us to stand against all the sorrows of this world and rise above them all.

I amar dannen di i dhim – the world has fallen into shadow.


	4. Heleg ad Gwilith

**Laer o Faen**

Four

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840

_Heleg ad gwilith_

Mirkwood was dark, and more dangerous by nightfall than it was even by day, so she stole by longer paths, and by a treetop route across its breadth between her dwelling and her destination, heading first to the river and the coracle her parents kept there for fishing, then following the water toward the River Gate of the Elvenking's Halls. There she once more took to the treetops and by cover of night, cloud and other dense foliage, drew nigh to the gate, for she knew she must get inside.

It was the single roll of thunder that had begun the open act of defiance of her parents, and the argument she had had with them on her return home warred fiercely with the fear kindled by the thunder, and left behind by the dream… another vision, but this one, stronger and more visceral than any – ever – and in it she was on her knees before the elf she so often saw…

_His white-blonde hair shone silver like starlight – always like starlight – and his eyes, though she knew them to hold much that was an expression of love, burned like ice. Her hands clutched at the lapels of the long robe that covered his powerful frame, and he held her arms, vice-like, almost painfully, but rather that than have him let go._

…the dread that lodged in her heart as Nieniriathlim rushed back in upon herself at the drawing away of the vision was one of unbearable loss; an unbreakable sense of doom. In spite of her parents, their argument, and her promises to them, she knew she could not delay – not for another moment – her efforts to discover the truth of all she saw, and to try and understand all she did not know.

It was by pure carelessness, one born of the fear instilled in her by her parents against coming to the heart of the Woodland Realm, that had ultimately precipitated the falling of the axe of fate. Nieniriathlim crept from shadow to shadow by the dim light of the near dawn, only to find the gates still firmly shut against the lingering night.

She should have known. She had heard the orders given by the watch commanders and _their_ superiors as she had crouched hidden in the trees the day before. By what foolish notion did she consider it might be different before even the dawning of a new day?

Wedged within the same hiding place, but unable to shake the absolute need to get inside that was clawing at her so hard that it was almost a physical pain, she cast her eyes over the sculpted façade of the entry to the halls, the bridge across the river that flowed at its base, and the postern gate bare meters away from the main gate, but across the other side of the river, with no visible means of reaching it.

"There _must_ be a way," she breathed to herself, realising it made little sense for the door to be there without a means of ingress. Perhaps it simply meant she could not see it from her current vantage point. As silently as she could she slipped down from the branch and crept into the foliage at the foot of the tree, measuring the shadows between where she crouched, and the smaller trees and bushes at the closest edge of the river directly across from the postern.

She had not taken the movement of the clouds, nor the slow setting of the moon into account.

Drawing up her hood, she kept it pulled low and tight around her face as she whispered across from cover to cover, slipping from shadow to shadow. She froze, like a deer or rabbit at the slightest sound and started first one way and then another to keep the whereabouts of the guards in sight. Then the wind shifted, and the low hanging crescent moon pointed its finger where she crept between the shifting, leafy cover.

The first she realised of her peril was the arrow that landed in the ground a breath away from her. The Elite guards of the Woodland Realm did not miss. She had watched them often and long enough to know this, and so knew that the placement of the shot had been deliberate, meant to keep her from advancing, drive her where they wanted her to be. Instead she turned and swerved aside, sprinting for new cover nearby, believing – in error greater than her peril – that if she reached it she would be able to slip to further shadows and make her escape.

Three more arrows struck the ground before and beside her. One pierced the hem of her cloak, and before she could reach to free herself, she found herself overshadowed by armoured Elves, and even as she backpedalled – paying little heed to her cloak any more – the hands of two guards closed around her upper arms, even as a third leaned down to pluck the arrow from the ground. She struggled, spitting most un-elflike invectives, in her demands that they let her go, as they began to half carry, half drag her within the Halls.

"U-rico," one of them ordered, sounding almost urgently kind.

Then the other hissed less amicably, "No tîn!"

Yet, the nearer they brought her through the Halls to the audience chamber above, the stronger her struggles became, and her cries, which began as words, turned almost inarticulate when one of the guards mentioned the king.

* * *

"Perhaps I should simply have you sent back to Laketown," Thranduil's too controlled voice rang out over the throne room, though he barely raised it, "with my missive that I no longer require that trade be facilitated by your people."

But a day before, while he had been out on patrol with his forces, his steward had discovered a deception wrought upon the wood by an unscrupulous representative of the men of Esgaroth. Never before would they have _dared_ to cross him, let alone deceive him and then attempt to confound the crime by means of trespass. There was more in this betrayal than the simple greed of men, or their desperation, which had only grown with the continuing hardships they faced day upon day; their troubles worsening with time since the desolation wrought by the dragon, barely two generations ago… in the reckoning of men.

The criminal, not originally a man of Laketown – for, by the manner of his dress, Thranduil identified him as a survivor of Dale – cowered now on his knees before the throne.

"Majesty," the man stuttered, his manner turning from defiance to alarm in a single moment, and it did not take a master strategist and diplomat like Thranduil to know that he had touched a nerve, even before the man pleaded, "You may as well put me to death by your own hand as send me back with such a message."

"Indeed," Thranduil answered, without a beat having passed, "Do not think I have not considered such a reward for what you have done." He waved a hand then, almost dismissively as he added, "But, I am far more inclined to hear the details of just what it was you sought to remove from—"

He broke off.

His head snapped up and all around he was aware of eyes turning his way; of hands tightening around sword and bow alike, but he was drawn by the same, momentary flash of a cold fire that flowed over him as he had felt in the woodland the previous day. He stood then, and watched as a struggling figure was brought by guardsmen up to the tier of the Halls in which his audience chamber stood.

Twice within the space of two consecutive days, his usual reserve snapped, and descending the stair, he demanded of the guards, "For what reason do you disturb my business here?"

"My Lord," one of the two Elves holding the struggling, cloaked figure answered at once, "We apprehended this one attempting to hide within the foliage by the River Crossing, close on the River Gate."

"An accomplice?" Thranduil narrowed his eyes, his accusatory glare falling over the Man of Dale still on his knees nearby. "Speak!"

"Majesty, I do not—" the man began.

"_Do _not seek to deceive me," Thranduil warned, "Truth or falsehood form the line between life and death. Choose wisely upon which side you will stand."

The man shook his head, fear upon his face, and what remaining shred of patience Thranduil possessed snapped, though something he could not explain stayed his hand from ordering their execution.

"Take them," he commanded, glaring down into the space at the two miscreants in his hall: the man upon his knees, and the still struggling figure held between his guards. "Take them both and give them cause to think on their willingness to answer."

He began to turn away, yet, unexpectedly, his eye was drawn to the newcomer, and she – for though cloaked and hooded he was certain of that fact – stilled beneath his gaze.

"Be assured, I _will_ have the truth." His shifted his gaze aside again and dismissed his guards, before completing his turn, ready to descend and head to his chambers; to catch a hold of his too fragile control.

_"_Heleg ad gwilith."

The words, though whispered, were like the clash of thunder to his ears; so familiar – words he had longed for through millennia, reached him from the lips of the figure, now once more struggling; all but frantic in the arms of his guards, and before he could measure his reaction, he raised a hand and ordered, "Wait!"

The guards turned back almost immediately following his command, two he waved off, taking the offending man of Laketown with them, and as the others brought the struggling figure to a halt before him, he signalled, the casual gesture belying his feelings, for them to let her go.

She stumbled as they released her arms, and it took _everything_ he was – defying explanation – not to reach out and steady her. Instead, to all in the chamber, he said softly, "Leave us," without ever once taking his eyes off the cloaked figure before him.

He remained before her, immobile, every muscle in his body tense with expectation; a hope he dare not anticipate teased just beyond grasp even if he _were_ to reach for it.

…_Dadwenathan le…_

The promise, whispered in the pauses between breaths, the absence between heartbeats, made his chest grow tighter, almost painful in the expectation of disappointment.

"M… my Lord, I can explain—"

Her voice, though she stammered and was clearly afraid, was soft and held a melodic depth in spite of the tremor in it. The tone caressed his jangling nerves, drew that elusive expectation around his senses like a soft blanket; so familiar and yet… it held a newness that left him uncertain, left relief just beyond his grasp.

"Your hood," he said, wrapping a tight control around that hope, not daring to acknowledge too much of it. "Remove it."

Holding his breath, he watched her hands shake as she reached up, and hardened his heart as best he could, under the circumstances of his own, sudden nervousness, against the unbidden sympathy that rose in him. Then she pulled down her hood, and her white-blonde hair, though braided spilled into view, shining – visibly soft.

He let out his breath in a long, slow sigh and before she could lower her gaze, he moved, lifting his hand to graze the tips of his fingers across her exquisitely high cheekbones. Her beauty was unmistakeable, and her familiarity made the ache in his heart sharpen. She was _not_ his Celyn in looks, as he would have expected – _dadwenathan le_ – and yet was as if a cousin or sister, an almost-twin, too alike to be some random coincidence. There was purpose in her coming, and it was the _purpose_ that he felt, the potential that trembled through him as he locked his gaze with hers, his ice-steel eyes reaching into the depth of water that was the blue of her own.

_Hear me._

The thought formed in his mind, but he caught the leading edge of the bond that would have sent the words forward, into her mind, and as if her fear had sharpened, either by his touch, or as though she had heard in spite of his effort to keep his mind from hers, she drew a breath sharply, and stepped back, away from him.

"What is your name?"

"Nieniriathlim, my Lord."

"The words you spoke," he said and was about to continue his question when she craved his apology, as demurely as any who had ever addressed him, but he did not wish for an apology, he wanted to know how she could have known to use such words on setting eyes upon him. It left him almost trembling in anticipation of her answer. He lifted his hand in a slight wave as if to ward of such a request for forgiveness as, pacing away from her, apparently calm, he finished, "Where did you hear them?"

The words of her answer stilled his step and he halted as if suspended, sucking in another breath, willing her to go on, to give him the confirmation he needed, though if she did, he could not _say_ what he would do.

"I heard them nowhere—"

Spinning he demanded, "Then How?"

Hope crested and a greater expectation sharpened like a knife inside of him, but obviously startled, she let out a soft cry, and stumbled a step further away, coming to her knee in a near fall, and before he could think better of it, he stepped close and followed her down, his hands reaching for hers, taking the both of them in one long fingered hand, his other coming to rest gently against her upper arm.

"You have no need to fear," he told her firmly, and with a gentle but insistent upward pressure drew her to her feet once more, though, unwilling to release her, he kept a hold of her hands. "I believe I had you much mistaken before, but… tell me."

"Forgive me," she whispered, and he watched as she swallowed three times before she spoke on, as if to find her voice was a struggle. "The words, I…"

She trailed off as she looked up, and his eyes caught hers, this young elf, so alike to what was lost; luminous, filled with the fragile promise of a strength that he could feel; that ached to grow. Everything within him screamed for caution, and with all he was he held himself to stillness, within and without – waiting.

"Sinwa hîn enni," her words finally broke the tension of the silence between them. "Mathan… Laew…"

He could see she struggled and he almost faltered, but his sense of caution, and his sense of duty was driven by more than the unconscious warning within his soul that flowed from a deeper source than the practical. Many fell creatures now lay within the forest beyond his halls, and every day, the dread reach of the sleepless malice that grew out of the south drew ever closer to his kingdom. His woods, once green and full of life, lay now dark with the poison of Shadow and for one yet so delicate as she to have come unmolested to his door, she had to be either blessed by the Valar, or some fell creature herself – for not _all _servants of Shadow were of ill aspect, and not all that was fair was of necessity of the Light.

"Come, Tithen," he said at last, and shifted his hold upon her hands, taking the one in a courtly clasp, releasing the other and starting toward the winding pathway that led deeper within the Halls. "Allow me to show you to a place where you may rest – as my guest."

His tone was patient, but he knew it would be clear that he would hear no argument against his intent. She _would_ remain, and he would watch her – closely – for as he had said, he _would_ have the truth. He _needed_ to know that was he felt was not born of the unbearable pain he still carried deep in his soul.

He needed to talk to someone, but who?

* * *

U-rico! – don't struggle!

No tîn! – be silent!

Heleg ad gwilith – ice and starlight

Dadwenathan le – I will return to you

Sinwa hîn enni – I feel them (Literally 'they are known to me')

Mathan… Laew - I feel… so much

Tithen – little one


	5. Dartho Na Anim

**Laer o Faen**

Five

Third Age of Middle Earth – 93

_Dartho na anim_

Every moment, she worked tirelessly with means arcane and less so: poultice and salve, and waxed silk to hold together flesh that would not knit, no matter the effort. No sooner would she stop the bleeding of one wound, than another would reopen, start again. Such was the hideous nature of dragon fire – though it would sear flesh from bone, its fell magic was such that it would not, as other fire would, cause such wounds to cauterise.

Minutes became hours, became days, and spell upon spell, upon prayer fell from her lips, unfailing, unending.

"Lasto, Thranduil, Melethron," she whispered urgently, "Dartho na anim. Lasto beth nín, matho ngalad nín… Rado bardhlein."

Still she could not feel the answering thread of his light, not even brushing against her reaching, searching touch. She was losing him, he was slipping into the gathering dark against even the weight of her healing energies.

More urgent yet, and in mounting desperation, she reached deeper within herself, having no choice; daring _everything_ to save the one she loved. Appealing to all that was sacred, to the very essence of Eru itself, and to every star that ever shone.

"Menno o nín na hon i eliad annen annin, hon leitho o ngurth." She barely drew breath to add, "Eterúno hon!"

* * *

What should have still been dappled green and gold was fading to the red and dull shades of brown, and not simply because autumn had come early to Greenwood the Great. The truth of the urgent message that had come to Imladris barely four days before came as a flash in his sight and he bent lower against the horse's neck, urging the mount to greater speeds yet as the Greenwood Guard parted before him, granting him free passage across the bridge and into the Royal Halls.

Hooves clattered on the courtyard, and even before Elrond brought the horse to a complete halt, he all but threw himself from the saddle, trusting the Stable Master to see to him and he turned to the Elf approaching him.

He recognised him as the King's Steward, and with barely a brief nod of greeting, he demanded, "Take me to him. Tell me everything."

"It was dragon fire, my Lord Elrond," Galion said softly, and Elrond hissed as he followed the steward's hurried steps with his own, knowing full well the horror such wounds wrought upon their vicitms. "As the captain reports it, he was caught almost directly in the creature's breath as he attempted to save those on the front line. Field surgeons packed the wounds, and…"

Elrond turned a deep frown Galion's way as the other Elf faltered in his telling.

"And?" he demanded with soft urgency.

"Many more of our warriors than those who lost in battle _gave_ their lives to bring him home, and now the Queen—"

"She is with him?" Elrond all but pushed the steward against the wall of the stair which they now hurriedly climbed toward the room at the top of the Northern Spire to bring him to a halt. "What of your healers?"

"My Lord, she will not leave him, nor allow any other to tend him." Galion said, and at the stricken look on the Elf's face, Elrond almost softened, but his heart contracted in fear, and he knew by the steward's words that he was there not to save one life, but two.

Spitting a soft curse, he released Galion, and demanded urgently, "Does _Eluilosloth_ grow within your gardens?" As Galion nodded he continued, "Bring me your strongest fortified wine, and as many blossoms as are still growing. Hurry."

Without waiting, for he knew the other Elf would obey his command, he turned and took the rest of the steps almost two at once. Entering the Spire's uppermost room, he took in the situation with a quick mind born of many millennia of knowledge and experience.

The queen was half braced against the side of the bed on which Thranduil lay, half slumped over the king, her hand lay against his chest, beneath her, and even from the doorway Elrond could _feel_ the faltering flicker of the magic she passed between them.

He crossed the distance in a heartbeat, throwing back his still mud stained cloak as she sat on the opposite side of the bed from the queen and lay one hand onto the back of her neck while closing his other around her own hand.

"Celyndailiel, farn," he murmured urgently, "Let go. You cannot help him this way."

As he spoke, he pushed against her failing energies, bolstering her with his own as much as he dared, for to disrupt her magic was a greater risk yet. She roused enough to register his presence, lifting her head and turning her eyes, which were pale – and bloodshot – with her exhaustion, his way.

"Rest, Celyn," he urged, and all but bodily lifted her from contact with her husband.

"No," she fought him, but weakly, "I cannot."

Her voice was barely a whisper, a gasp in the gathering gloom as the late afternoon sun began to set, and at the quality in it, a deeper fear began inside of Elrond that he was already too late.

"Elrond, please…" Her struggles continued, but in her current condition she was no match for him, no matter her desperation. "Let me go… If I stop I will lose him forever."

At that he bodily lifted her to face him and cupped her face in his hands and _made_ her look at him, and with unmerciful certainty in his voice he told her, "And if you go on, _he_ will lose _you._"

* * *

Her sight dimmed, as though her tired eyes could no longer stand the sight of his suffering.

She lost all sense of time and day or night meant little to her. She felt the beat of her heart only in the few short hours when Elrond permitted her near to her beloved – for even he accepted that as close their bond had always been, likely only she could save Thranduil from the clutches of oblivion. When she rested away from him, she drifted, as if in Shadow.

The food that Elrond gave to her was as ash within her mouth, and the fortified wine, laced with Star-flower left an emptiness that lingered, a hollow that should have been filled with the joyful presence of her Lord and King – her husband, her _soul._

Still he suffered.

It was dark.

No moon graced the sky, and the very stars seemed dimmed above the falling canopy of once great beeches, and towering oaks. The tide of the heavens was turning, and all of Greenwood stood trembling on the cusp of an hour grown late, yet come far too soon.

She could hear Elrond moving around in the adjoining annex, no doubt creating the salves and other healing preparations with which he had been working so earnestly for the sake of her beloved – all, it seemed, in vain, and in aid of her own, faltering _fae_.

By what shred of will remained, she forced away the dizziness as she sat up, crossed the few steps of distance between the chaise that the servants had brought, on Elrond's orders, and the bed where Thranduil lay, stiller than death.

There remained but one choice, one course left open to her. He _was_ Greenwood, and if he did not survive, who would be left to stand when Darkness rose once more? For rise it would.

"You _must_ live," she whispered, and around her stillness fell as if the very woodland itself, and the stones of the Halls around them held their breath.

On legs that barely held her she climbed up to settle on the bed beside Eryn Lasgalen's King, and slowly laid her trembling hands, one upon his chest the other on his too-pale brow, and closing her eyes, spoke softly.

"Ai… Fanuilos…. Lasto," she craved, and though her soul grew still, she felt the quiver in her body more keenly, "Lasto beth nín, ainima Elbereth, lasto beth o pen i-vela… Tai ngalad nín, guil nín, lavo han athra na hon."

Her voice slowed and deepened with each successive word she spoke, and she could almost feel the drawing away of all that she was… the answering of her prayer.

"Nai e cuio!"

She let out a long, slow breath at the ending of her words, aware the door behind her had opened, but caring little, not even as Elrond's voice split the air as an anguished cry.

"Celyn, No!" His arms closed around her as she all but fell forward, and he called over his shoulder, "Galion, the cup"

She heard movement behind Elrond, then felt the Elven healer press the cool rim of a cup to her lips, but she pushed it away.

"No more… Elrond," she whispered, "It was my choice. You have to let me go… to save him."

"There's another way!"

"There _is_ no other way." She reached up to brush at the tears that fell from Elrond's lashes to his cheek. "For as much as I love him with all that I am, I love the Woodland… our people… my _son_… and without their king, they will not survive the coming storm."

"Celyn, _hear _me—" Elrond began, but she cut him off.

"No, Elrond… hear _me: _this is the only way." She gazed on him with beseeching eyes. "Lay me in his arms… one last time."

"Oh, Celyndailiel…" she heard her name as a sigh upon Elrond's lips as he set her gently against the king, her head pillowed against his chest, where she heard as well as felt the long, slow, indrawn breath as time, for Celyndailiel, began to slow…

…flow backwards…

_"I think I have seen you here before?"_

_She looked up, startled at the apparently sudden appearance of a figure in front of her. He was tall, even for an Elf - Sindar, from the look of him, and that was when her quick mind put the pieces together. This was the Oropher's son, the Prince of the Woodland Realm that his father had established east of the Great River._

_"My Lord, Prince," she greeted him and dipped a low, graceful curtsy but found he caught her hand softly to raise her to her full height once more._

_"No need," he answered softly, and her eyes met his, their ice-blue lights shining, dazzling in her sight._

_She felt herself blush, but would not give in to it, instead she said softly, "Would you care to walk, my Lord? The gardens here are very beautiful."_

"We walked… for _hours…_ in those gardens…" Unaware she had done so, she called softly to Galion, placing her ring within his trembling hand, whispering, barely breathing, "Tell him: 'I will return to you…'"

…and ultimately stopped.

* * *

Days became a march of slowly lessening pain under Elrond's healing care.

Despair lingered… hovering always in the shadows, in the unlit corners of the room he had not left for many moons. He felt its presence like a spectre, feared it in his better moods, and longed to embrace its cold promise of fading to nothing when the absence of his beloved light settled, unshakable, over him… and then he feared it all the more.

"She gave her _life_ for you!" The memory of Elrond's bitter tone struck hard as he barely managed to limp to the balcony of the high spire by leaning on a carven oak staff that Galion and brought for him once the healers – torturers all of them – had insisted he rise from the bed. "How _dare_ you think to throw such a gift away as though it were _nothing_!"

"You think I don't know that?" he spat in response. "You think I do not feel her absence with every breath I take, every beat of my shattered heart?"

They fought often.

Any other and he might have been tempted to order the guard to run the other Elf through for his audacity, but they had shared too much, and in his heart he knew that Elrond meant only to help keep him from surrendering to the emptiness that became too large a part of him.

He sighed, closing his eyes, and with fingers still tight with the newness of recently healed skin massaged the ache that settled behind his temples as he had sat peering down into the garden below, his sight still hampered and unbalanced by the absence of it in his ruined left eye.

No spell, no amount of healing, no unguent, magical or otherwise had been able to restore his face or eye to the fullness of health, while the rest of him recovered slowly, even if he were still as weak as a newborn, where once he had been strong.

But he could not… _would_ not reach inside of himself to aid them. He dare not face the full truth of the absence that he knew he would find inside if he did.

"How much longer will you keep me prisoner here?" he asked as he heard the door open and close behind him – no doubt the herald of Elrond's evening visit.

"Prisoner?" Elrond queried, and came to stand beside him, on his left – deliberate, he knew. An effort to _make_ him face and conquer his disability. Instead he turned his head.

"Yes, Peredhil, prisoner," he spat, disingenuously.

Elrond ignored the intended slight.

"You are no more kept prisoner here than you would keep yourself, Thranduil," he said and then spreading his arms asked, "But… where do you wish to go?"

Thranduil felt the shaking begin in his limbs, and spread through the whole of him, almost breaking his resolve, almost making him change his mind… almost…

"I wish to see the final resting place of my beloved queen," he whispered past his trembling lips.

"I laid your wife to rest within your arms, Aran nín," Elrond answered, his voice softer than ever before, "where she requested. But… if you wish to visit her memorial, I will take you."

He gripped Elrond's arm as the other Elf moved to his right, and helped him carefully to his feet. Elrond remained to his right, the wooden staff his steward had given him supported him upon the left, and slowly – agonisingly slowly – the Lord of Imladris guided him down to the Garden of Tranquil Waters that was deep within the walls of his Kingdom.

Almost at the northernmost point of the gardens, it stood, a White doe of carven marble, lying as if in repose beneath the spreading fronds of a cascading silver willow that had been planted, and coaxed by careful nurture to grow strong by Elven magics, between the fall of twin, melodious waterfalls. The place would feel the touch of the first rays of the morning, as well as the last lingering rays of the evening sun, when the kiss of the moon would find her. She would never be without light – for even on a moonless night, the bright stars in the heavens overhead would grace her with their silvering.

"Hanon le, mellon nín," Thranduil whispered as he sank to his knees before the memorial, tears filling his eyes.

He saw Elrond shake his head.

"Many hundreds of years ago," The tone in Elrond's voice as Thranduil look up at him, a frown upon his face, waiting for him to continue. Elrond settled nearby with a sigh before he did. "I saw this…" he gestured, and then clarified, "…saw _you_ kneeling before such a monument. At the time, I assumed I was seeing what had already happened, and that it was your mother's monument after Doriath was lost to Middle Earth… but as Celyn began to fade… I knew I had been wrong."

Thranduil hung his head as the softness of Elrond's words brought the full weight of all the sorrow and loss to his mind, and his tears finally fell – for all his lost kin, and all those left behind at their fading, but most of all, for his beloved Celyn, who had been the only anchor, the only reason in the many long centuries, since he was thrust into the adult world as Doriath fell.

* * *

Lasto, Thranduil, Melethron – Hear me, Thanduil, my love

Dartho na anim – stay with me

Lasto beth nín, matho ngalad nín… Rado bardhlein. – hear me, feel my light… find your way home

Menno o nín na hon i eliad annen annin, hon leitho o ngurth – May the Grace given to me, pass to him. Let him be spared from death.

Eterúno hon! – save him!

Celyndailiel, farn – Celyndailiel, enough.

Fae - soul

Ai… Fanuilos…. Lasto – Oh, Ever-White… Hear me.

Lasto beth nín, ainima Elbereth – Hear me, Blessed Elbereth

lasto beth o pen i-vela… – hear the plea of one who loves…

Tai ngalad nín, guil nín, lavo han athra na hon. – What light, what life is mine, let it pass to him.

Nai e cuio! – may he live!

Aran nín – my king

Hanon le, mellon nín – Thank you, my friend


	6. Le U-Erui

**Laer o Faen**

Six

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840

_Adisto, le u-erui_

"You did well today."

Thranduil swept into the dressing area adjacent to the armoury as what had been a long day finally came to a close. He waited while Legolas changed out of his armour and into more comfortable robes, but the sight of his son in his finery did little to calm the unsettled emotions that had burned inside of Thranduil since the capture of the young Elf earlier that day, and the echoes she had awoken within him. He turned and began to mount the small stair out of the chamber that led through one of the many inner conservatories, carefully tended within the Halls

"Walk with me," he commanded softly.

He had received the report from his master at arms concerning both Legolas' and Captain Tauriel's patrols, and their efforts in clearing the woodland of the ever increasing presence of Orcs and other creature by far more foul, and had been beside Legolas the day before, fighting as one, father and son united, and he wanted to Legolas to know that he was proud of him.

Yet, there was another reason he wished to talk with his son, though judging from the expression on Legolas' face as he fell into step beside his father, talk of his intended, albeit brief, departure would have to wait.

"You do not agree," he as much stated as asked.

"There are more than just Orcs within our borders," Legolas said. "Close. Too close."

Thranduil's unsettled feeling surged, but he would not allow the emotion to show on his face. Sooner or later he was going to have to share his thoughts and feelings with Legolas, but not before _he_ was more settled with what those feelings might mean, for all of them. Still, he was curious to learn what it was that Legolas meant.

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"Yesterday. I thought I felt something," his son said, "in the trees by the River Gate, but when I looked I could see nothing, and then the feeling was gone."

Thranduil considered Legolas' words, and in the light of what the day had brought to his Halls, the king could only assume that Legolas was speaking of Nieniriathlim, a fact that his son confirmed only a moment later, as he added, "And today, I learn that a prisoner was taken, an Elf attempting to penetrate our defences?"

"Not a prisoner," he corrected Legolas, matter of fact, "a guest."

As he spoke the words he felt a tightening in his chest. If he was right… if his hopes were proven founded, what then? How would he tell his son? With a deep breath, he tried to still his mind and added, "For now."

"Ada?"

Legolas' soft query brought him out of his thoughtfulness, and with a wave of his hand both to dismiss the question, and to command his own emotions, he began to walk slowly toward the pathway leading to the Royal Apartments, wherein lay his own, and Legolas' private chambers.

"The day has been long," he answered, "and has brought many questions best served by careful thought and rest."

He turned his head as he suspected Legolas about to argue, but his son simply nodded, and he felt the acceptance of his wisdom, then together the two walked in silence until they reached the small platform where they would part ways. They came to a halt then, almost in the same moment, and Thranduil realised that he had not yet divulged his intention to ride to Imladris, even though much remained unsettled there in his realm.

He sighed softly.

He needed to rest, to examine what he knew; to set all straight within his mind, before he could leave. The matter of Esgaroth's apparent betrayal of their standing arrangement troubled him. It could not be coincidence that so many things had come at once. In his experience, such things were always the herald of some approaching ill.

He was also much disturbed by the continued rise of the Shadow, the evil he felt from the old fortress at Amon Lanc – and as always a lance of hurt went through his heart when he thought on the once imposing fortress that had been his father's capital in the Great Greenwood. He had long since sent word to the White Council, via Elrond, and yet… nothing. No one had answered, and all they maintained was their watchful peace. Not that he had a problem with defending his own realm, only that some better form of acknowledgement would have been more of a comfort. The Orcs and foul creatures that marred his kingdom were a rising menace, but not yet so out of control that he could not hold his people safe, and yet…

As if his son had been reading his thoughts, Legolas asked, "The prisoner from Laketown?"

"Morning will be soon enough for us to find out the truth of his purpose," he turned a bitterly sarcastic smile across the space between him and where his beloved son still remained, immobile beside the steps that led to his rooms. "A further night held within the walls of our prison may yet serve to loosen his tongue."

"As you wish," Legolas answered, but still did not move, so Thranduil tipped his head in query.

"Is there something more?" he asked.

"By your leave, I should like to have our patrols take one more sweep around the borders, by the river before the moon sets." Legolas said. "Though, by your word, you have taken the Elf as guest, not prisoner, Laketown's betrayal is unmistakable, and where there was one intruder, there may be more."

"No," Thranduil answered, and as he did a single roll of thunder passed overhead outside the Halls. The second such disturbance in as many days and herald of more to come. He found that troubled him too, but returning his attention to his now frowning son, he explained, "I need you rested. In the morning I mean to leave for Imladris, and you will govern in my stead until I return."

He turned then, to mount the steps toward his own chambers, ordering his son, "Come to me at first light, and we shall discuss the matter of the man of the lake. Until then, rest."

Thranduil, however, did not go to his rest, as he had intended.

Many hours passed and still he found himself pacing in his chambers, in his mind replaying all that he had seen, and felt, since the first flash of silver-white that crossed his path the day before and the coming of the young Elf, and in spite of telling himself time and time over for the need to be cautious, not to accept what appeared to be simply for its appearance, he found himself examining the lore he knew concerning the not unprecedented cases of reincarnation among his Elven kin. There was so much that was different – too much – and whether that proved his hope to be in error, and even the thought of such a thing caused a sharp pain, an almost physical ache deep in his chest, or whether it meant that it was, in truth, his Celyn returned to him, and there was some, as yet unknown, reason for the deviation from accepted lore, he did not yet know.

All that he knew, in that moment, was that he could lose himself quite easily to this beautiful young Elf, and one way or another, that could prove to be dangerous and yet… in spite of her differences, she _was_ an echo of his love. How could he not? His heart lurched again at the thought, and turning quickly, he retraced his earlier steps from his chambers, and headed for the gardens beneath the Northern Spire.

* * *

Nieniriathlim paced back and forth across the floor of the fine chamber to which the King had shown her, and even though he had apologised for the simple nature of the room, and assured her that, as soon as it could be facilitated, she would be moved to more suitable accommodations, the room was far grander than anything she had ever been used to.

She had rested, and breakfasted on delicious foods, and sweet nectars, and ladies had attended her, providing her with fresh, and fine clothing, and through the day had guided her at length around lovely conservatories, and echoing chambers filled with the melody of falling waters.

It was beautiful. It was perfect. It felt so natural and right, but… that frightened her, for she did not understand how or why it should.

Evening fell, and a finely dressed steward attended her, with words of apology from the king that he could not join her, as he had planned, to share the evening meal, for matters of state kept him. She was to please take her rest, and he would make every effort to breakfast with her the following morning.

The steward left, and more ladies swept in upon her, bearing trays of food, and fine wine, and their company, though reserved – almost, in some cases, shy enough to cause her to be uncomfortable – was welcome enough. Then the moon rose, and at the call of an Elven horn, the ladies bid her farewell, and left.

At first she tried to rest, but her mind was too full of all the things of which she had yet to make sense, for nothing in the whirlwind of a day had been settled. There was so much she did not understand, and it only added to her fear, and her sudden longing to find her way outside, to make her way home.

Her parents were right. She should never have come. She should not have disobeyed them. She could not, however deny that against _all _of that she also wanted to be there – right where she was.

"I don't understand," she said aloud and her breathing hitched in her chest as, so deep in the Halls that she felt, rather than heard, the rumble overhead, the room spun around her, and she clutched at the stone wall as dislocation of sight and sound thrust the sense of another time upon her.

_She was sitting beside the small pool in a garden, a breeze stirred the surface of the water, and the vision came upon her before she could hope to breathe it away, a deep red wave full of cries and pain and desolation. It was all she could hear, even as she reeled away, fought for her feet and raced toward the one place of shelter, of stability amid the madness, that she knew she would find. She had to stop him. He could not leave._

_She found him in his chambers, at rest on the chaise beside his balcony, not upon the bed, and as she burst through the door he came to his feet at once, caught her as she scrambled across the top of the bed to reach him, his hands closing around her upper arms as she grasped the edges of his robe, pulled on him desperately, trembling until his fingers grasped her almost painfully, almost shaking her… almost. Instead he pulled her close._

Nieniriathlim gasped audibly as the same vision that brought her to the Halls of the Elvenking flowed through her again, sight only, there was no sound. She could not hear the words they said, she and the king, though she felt them with emotion so fraught that tears came unbidden to her eyes. She let go of the stone against which she had had braced herself, still not fully aware, and stumbled gracelessly, knocking a single vase from a round wooden table, before she turned and fled the room, running blindly, unknowing of where she ran.

As she flew through the Halls, her steps taking her downward, guards shifted, but only to come to attention, none tried to stop her. Not until suddenly, through a carven arch, she burst into the open air of a well-tended garden within high, ornate walls, did any move to hinder her or follow her flight. These did. The guards flanking the door stepped swiftly after her, hands closing more tightly around the shafts of their polearms as they did.

As the ground underfoot changed, and as the cooler air outside hit her, she took a deeper breath and as if waking, shuddered, and all but skidded to a halt, and hearing sound behind her turned back to the doorway, looking first one way, and then another, and seeing the guards – armed and apparently stalking her – she began to back away.

"I'm sorry," she stammered, "If I am not permitted here, I will—"

As one, the guards stopped advancing, though they maintained a ready, watchful pose, with their weapons at the ready, their gaze fixed beyond her, and with another backward step, Nieniriathlim spun around, and barely avoided the solid wall of silver brocade that was the king's broad chest, before becoming enfolded in the heavy drape of silk as arms came up to steady her.

With a light gasp she looked up at him, for even though she held the stature of her Elven heritage, he towered over her, and found herself caught in the strength within his eyes.

"Gwao o vín," he instructed the guards behind her, though his eyes never left hers, and narrowed barely noticeably within the slightest of frowns that crept to grace his brow as he tipped his head and softer yet, said, "Why such haste, Nienanín?"

Her heartbeat faltered, and the fluttering that settled in her belly made it hard to catch her breath. She could find no answer, save the light blush that crept to her cheeks as she thought herself foolish to have run so from a simple roll of thunder from a now clearing sky.

"I had thought you at rest," he continued a moment later when still she had not answered, and the intense heat of his nearness faded as he stepped away and to her side, releasing her and offering instead a hand, held in courtly fashion, awaiting her own.

"I… was, my Lord," she found her voice at last, and slipped her hand to rest atop his. As she did, he began to walk, turning toward where she could see the silver crescent of the moon scarcely risen above the high walls and towering trees.

"Yet here we are," he said, "the both of us, far from rest. Tell me, what is it has disturbed you?"

"It is foolish," she said, a tiny shrug lifting her shoulders. She sensed he looked at her, and glanced up to see him raise an eyebrow in expectation.

"I consider nothing that could provoke such flight through my Halls as foolish," he said. "Tell me."

He released her hand then to allow her to cross a small, carved wooden bridge across a stream that flowed across their path, following her a moment later, as she answered him.

"It was the thunder, my Lord," she said, telling him only half of the truth and fully intending to speak not of the vision it had summoned. "I feared it as the herald of a storm."

"This forest has seen many storms, Nieniriathlim," he answered softly, taking up her hand again as they continued to walk through the pathways of the moonlit garden, "and has stood against them all."

Nieniriathlim could not help but shiver at the tone she almost _felt_ behind his words, rather than heard. It was fleeting, barely there, and only for a moment, still, she sensed a loneliness, a longing deeper than any river, and queried, "My Lord?"

"Why would you fear such a thing?"

His question brought a sudden rush of panic, and for a moment, as she looked up at him, she saw her hands gripping the edges of his robe, and yet… not her hands, for the ones that held the edges of the silver fabric caught within their grasp were those of a wedded Elf, the index finger graced with a shining white gem. Words fell unbidden from her trembling lips.

"For as long as I can remember," she told him, "I have feared such a storm, as if it were some... terrible harbinger of the breaking of my heart; the loss of everything that gives my life meaning."

"Lau, hiril nín," his fingers tightened around hers, almost painfully, for a moment, before she heard him take a breath, and relaxing his grip, stroked his thumb across the back of her hand almost apologetically. "You are protected from such storms here, for their time is passed, and by the Grace of the Valar, will ever remain so. For now, in this kingdom, peace endures, and sun and moon both shine as they must, so… be sure of heart."

She took a breath, uncertainty nipping at the edges of all that she had learned, even though everything she was cried out to allow herself to become lost in his reassurance, to embrace it. What if these visions she saw were not visions at all, but memories… echoes of some long passed tragedy somehow trapped within the fabric of the present; these walls allowing her to see the more of all that had been – all that was. The thought made her look again to the king.

"And… you, my Lord?" He looked at her quizzically, and she clarified, "You also are kept from your rest."

His expression softened, and with the merest shake of his head he denied the concern.

"Matters of state," he said softly, though she felt a slight hesitation in the play of his muscles before he answered, "And I must crave your forgiveness, for they are such matters as will take me from my realm, albeit briefly, and from oversight of your care."

Another flurry of fear troubled her heart and stomach to change places, and as he turned their steps toward a doorway leading in to a many balconied tower, she gripped his hand in an expression of that worry.

"You need not fear," he stopped beside the doorway to the tower and turned to face her as guards at its base pushed open the door. "In my absence you shall be well cared for."

"It is not for myself that I am concerned, my Lord," she answered softly, honestly, and as his expression turned to query she added, "For you have been... most kind and understanding, especially to one as unfit for court as I."

She watched as he waved away the thought, and gestured to an Elf within the open doorway who came forth, to stand patiently at Nieniriathlim's shoulder as the king said quietly, "Go with my steward. He will show you to the apartments that I wish for you to occupy from this moment on."

"Of course, my Lord," she answered, "Only…"

"Yes?"

"Please… though you _are_ Eryn Galen, and Her people and their safety lodge ever within your heart," The words, falling from her lips were the most natural expression of the truth that she knew in her very soul was so. She felt it. She _knew_ it... knew _him_ in that moment and understood that this was the tension he had not expressed when she had asked of the reasons for his restlessness, and did not question it. "Whenever the reach of Shadow wearies you toward despair, remember that you are _not_ alone."

For a moment she felt as though time had stopped, and neither he nor she drew breath, even though she heard the sound of the steward behind her moving almost nervously, and then the moment broke, and the king closed his eyes, and let out a long slow breath as he tipped his head in a graceful, sedate bow, that stretched the silence a moment longer. Then he raised his head and spoke.

"Go now with Galion, and please forgive me. It will be many days before we speak again." There was almost a tightness of emotion in his voice, and she saw him swallow before he added, "Know that you will be attended soon by more appropriate company."

"Yes, my Lord," she felt the need to whisper her ascent, and accepted Galion's arm as he moved to guide her inside, from the corner of her eye noticing the king's gesture to one of the guards, who followed the steward a step or two behind.

"Nieniriathlim!"

The king's soft call halted them, and the guard stepped aside as she turned back to Thranduil.

"I am glad we found you," he said softly.

She looked up again then, a smile softening her startled expression as she caught a glimpse of the warmth behind the ice that sat in his eyes; the warmth of the starlight for which she named him.

"And I am glad to have been found," she answered. Then releasing him from what felt like some kind of obligation to remain, she added, "Stay safe in whatever matters keep you from me, until you deem it right that you return." She gave him a soft curtsy then before rising to turn away. "I am, after all... your servant."

* * *

Gwao o vín, - leave us

Lau, hiril nín – no, my lady

Quotation at the head of the chapter is Niena's plea to Thranduil to remember that he is not alone.


	7. I Lant o Doriath

**Laer o Faen**

Seven

First Age of Middle Earth – 506

_Sen pân gwesta: gurth hon annatham nan i-vent aur, naeg tenna i-vent i-amar._

He could feel his mother's eyes on him as he hurried to ready himself.

Ever more frequent, since the message came that sent his father and others of the older warriors out upon long hours of patrol in the woodlands of Neldoreth, Nivrim and Region; even more often since Dior had answered the missive with rejection, did he feel her hovering in his doorway.

Slowly he and turned to her, holding out his hand.

He said softly, "When will you tell me what troubles you?"

She came to him then, slipping her hand onto his arm, and holding tightly as she looked up at him, and shook her head.

"I have no need to speak of it, Thranduil," she answered, "for it is already upon us, and soon we will be swept in its tide toward all that will come after."

"More riddles, Naneth?" he sighed softly. "Ada is right. You have spent too much time in worry."

"And yet your Adar is arrayed for war," she answered, "And you also, Ionen."

He lifted her hand from his arm, holding her trembling fingers in his hand, and gesturing toward the hallway, beyond his rooms, that led out from Menegroth, said, "Oath, curse or otherwise, Naneth, these are our _people _and I cannot, I _will _not allow them to come to harm undefended. There are _children_ here."

"You are barely more than a child yourself," she said. "Battle now, and you will spend your _life_ in conflict and war. Will you not spare yourself?"

He shook his head.

"I will spare those who _cannot_ save themselves. Naneth, you _know_ this is right." He pushed her gently toward the door, feeling the chill of foresight surrounding her words, and his own. "You must go to safety, and I must face this oncoming darkness."

"If we part now, I will never see you again," she said. "Thranduil, please!"

"No," he said firmly. "You must forgive me, but it is my duty." Briefly he embraced her, slipping out of her arms when he thought she would have tried to hold him back. "Find safety, and help the others if you can."

Then with no further word, he snatched sword from sheath, and hurried down the winding stone stair, and into a tide of war from which he and his kin had, for so long, been protected.

* * *

For the second time in less than the passing of even half a decade, the forests and pathways of Doriath ran with the blood of Elves. The steps underfoot were slick, and the iron scent filled his every breath, leaving him weakened with nausea, his eyes hot and sore from the smoke of the burning, and unshed tears for the loss so many lives.

At the scuff of a foot at his back he spun, tired arms aching with the effort of raising twin blades in defence against the descending Elven steel, growling denial; every sensibility railing in silent, horrified protest at crossing blades with another Elf.

"This need not be!" he ground out, pushing against the other's blades as he locked his own against them, but even then, he knew his words, his persuasive wisdom came too late to reach the other, as he saw the darkness of hatred in his eyes, as glancing down he caught sight of the red-black stain of blood beneath his feet.

Heaving hard to force the other back far enough to free his steel to move, and with the cries of the hurt and dying around him; the cries of children slain without mercy, Thranduil pushed away the righteous reservations of his youth, and embraced the cold of the truth. The only defence left to Doriath was to attack, to fight.

No time for fatigue, no time for thought, he focussed inward, became one with the play of his muscles, the circle of his blades, the thrust and parry; pattern of the deadly dance. Steel rang against steel, and blue sparks flew in the dimness of the caverns through which the battles took him. Unfailing and unyielding he fought off all he came against until the blood of his kin stained his innocence with a ghostly echo of an older time, but all before him found their end as he defended – with every breath he took – those who would have otherwise met a merciless end.

Fierce and terrible the axe that felled the mighty kingdom of Doriath. Deep into the night, they fought, and Thranduil among them. Deep into the dark and cold until the battle came at last to the great hall, and small pockets – knots of fearsome warriors caught in the ferocity of their battle – were all that was left of the two great hosts.

Barely ahead of a trio of deadly kinsman that stalked him, Thranduil came. The flickering light of torches a sombre sheen turned crimson where it once had flickered bright and silver in the reflected splendour of the Halls of Menegroth.

The burden of such a horrible truth weighted his heart sorely, but as he came ahead of the three, blades raised and ready, he caught then the sight that first cracked his resolve: lying broken upon his side, Dior Eluchîl, his fair and beautiful light shattered; his expression, even in death, one of despair. His hand lay outstretched toward another, softer hand, for nearby him lay Nimloth, his queen, her pale gown awash with her life's blood from the wound so visible across her back. She had been cut down from behind, and Dior come too late to save her.

Despair and anger warred in Thranduil as he turned to face his pursuers, turning their blades aside on the edges of his own even as they came at him, two of them moving past the third they flanked, and he turning his sword left handed about his one remaining hand, his wild, auburn hair a firestorm around his head.

"Why!" Thranduil hissed, recognising at once the eldest of the Sons of Fëanor. "They were _not_ your enemy!"

Kinsmen fairly flew past Thranduil, taking Maedhros' companions into battles of their own as the Noldor answered his question with the cruel thrust of his blade.

"He _made_ himself so," Maedhros said as his heavy blade sliced toward Thranduil's head with such force that the younger Elf knew he could not hope to parry it. "When he refused our summons."

Instead Thranduil spun aside, both his blades apart, one high one low, in spinning striking Maedhros armour on the side, sending shimmering sparks into the dim hall.

"_He_, perhaps," Thranduil countered, pressing the advantage of his sudden move, and advancing on the Noldorin Prince, twin swords flashing in the torchlight. "Bereth tín u-neithol!"

Bitterly his blows fell, and the time for parlay was long passed, the sands of its hourglass running with the royal blood across the flagstones at his feet. His assay was met, parried, just as _he_ turned aside the incoming repost, but he was tiring and with each successive parry grew later and almost too late, and each strike he made fell weaker, until growling, Maedhros leaped ahead, swinging his blade wildly in advance, and Thranduil felt the sting of hot Elven steel shear the plate at his chest.

Hissing in pain, he barely thought to raise both blades, overhead and crossed to catch Maedhros' following, descending stroke, and the three blades locked, Thranduil's arms straining as he fought to hold back the older Elf's attack.

"He killed my brothers," Maedhros growled.

"They _invited_ death," Thranduil spat, "as have you all, but you _murdered_ his beloved light, perhaps not by your own hand but—"

"Thranduil!"

An urgent, almost terrified cry of his name cut off his bitter accusation, and Thranduil risked a glance behind. All remaining breath went out from him, though not the fight, nor the strength of his arms, which in the agony of discovery redoubled.

In the far entrance to the Great Hall of Menegroth stood Oropher. His father was bloodied, his cloak and armour in tatters, advancing before all that was left of his comrades at arms… but in his arms he cradled the limp and broken form of Thranduil's mother.

"Mûl o Morgoth!"

Heat and light exploded in Thranduil at the realisation of his mother's faltering life, and renewed strength and vigour flowed into his limbs, as if spring was newly come and not the dead of winter as it felt in his heart. Pushing hard, he sent Maedhros' blade all but flying away, following the Elf Prince as he gave ground, a cold light burning in his eyes as blow upon blow fell upon the elder's faltering guard. As if the very heart of Doriath had entered him and invigorated his speed and skill, Thranduil struck until, catching the guard of Maedhros' blade with the tip of his offhand sword, he sent the steel away, and pressed the tip of his other against the Norldorin Elf's throat.

"On your knees," he snarled, bringing the offhand blade to join the first as – clearly knowing he was beaten – and his death was at hand, Maedhros slowly sank to the flagstones, eyes locked with Thranduil's burning orbs. Thranduil crossed his blades at the Maedhros' throat. "Join your brothers in—"

"Ionen, no!"

It was not Oropher's cry that stilled his hand, but the flickering light he thought he saw at by his left hand, a softness in the dark… and words came to him, whispering as if upon an unfelt breeze.

_Let him be spared… The children… … Find them…_

He turned his head to peer through the soft light to his father and the Elves with him.

"Where are the children?" he demanded, uncaring of who answered, keeping Maedhros in place upon his knees. "Where are Eluréd and Elurín…? Elwing?"

"The twins were taken by Celegorm's servants," Oropher answered, "Where their sister is…"

He shook his head, and Thranduil could only assume that she also was taken. He slowly turned his gaze back to Maedhros, fresh anger burning upon the bed of coals already inside of him, listening to the soft, internal whisper of a truth he did not understand how he knew… T_he Silmaril is no longer here…_ even as Maedhros offered desperate but empty assurances.

"We do not wage war upon the innocent."

Leaning down, his voice soft and full of menace, putting pressure on the blades that held the Nordorin Prince at his mercy, Thranduil challenged, "Do you not?"

He did not expect an answer, letting the dead and dying in the Hall speak to the answer as – keeping one blade at Maedhros' throat – he grasped the Elf's braided hair and turned his gaze to look upon the slain queen of Doriath.

"Prove it," Thranduil hissed. "Man anira han u-hemp hi!"

He straightened, forcing Maedhros' head back on the edge of his blade, and uncaring that he addressed an elder, an Elf more noble than he; with an arrogance that belied his years and status, ordered, "Find your brother's servant, return the children – if you wish to live."

Maedhros nodded carefully, his eyes never leaving Thranduil's, and only when Thranduil was certain that his answer was genuine did he remove the blade, sheath it, and instruct the others of his kin, "Take him, and cast him into the forest to begin his search."

The Elves looked to his father, now the Elf of greatest rank within the Halls of Menegroth, and Thranduil saw his father nod his ascent. Only then did they move to follow his command.

He did not care.

As they dragged the Noldorin prince from the Great Hall, Thranduil turned and joined his father as Oropher knelt with his mother still in his arms, and Thranduil wept as the mantle of authority fell from about him and he felt the truth of his mother's passing.

* * *

Naneth – mother

Ada/Adar – dad/father

Ionen – my son

Bereth tín u-neithol – his queen was innocent

Mûl o Morgoth – Literal translation is Servant of Morgoth, however, since there are no cuss-invectives in Elvish, you can assume this to be the worst insult an Elf could utter

Man anira han u-hemp hi – that which you seek is not here

The quotation at the head of the chapter is the Sindarin form of a line of the Oath of Feanor, and means: _This we all swear: death him we will give ere the Day's End, agony till the World's End_


	8. I Wend U-lam

**Laer o Faen**

Eight

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840

_Na sui gûl dhelu egor maenas ne gar i ûr tyfn o mínsto i vela athar phân nauth?_

Tauriel slowly made her way down into the conservatory, where she had been told the Lady Nieniriathlim could be found, her mind straying back to the brief conversation she had shared with the king on the day of his departure for Imladris.

_"Watch her, gain a measure of her, and then earn her trust," he said. "For I desire a second pair of eyes, free of the taint of all things passed."_

_"Do you not trust her, my Lord?" Tauriel asked softly._

_"I doubt she is a threat," he told her without directly answering the question, "In fact, if what I feel is correct, by far the opposite."_

_Sitting in his throne, had any other seen him, arms laid in gracious curves on the rests of the chair, long legs unevenly extended, they might have thought him relaxed. But Tauriel saw his free hand flex, saw the line of vexation near his dark brow, and the storm gathered behind his pale blue eyes, and knew that he was far from at rest._

_"My Lord?" she asked softly._

_There was a moment in which she thought he had not heard, and never before had she seen him that way, but then he cast off the strange mood, unfolded his tall frame from where he sat, and descended the steps to her side._

_"_W_atch her keenly, Tauriel, become first her shadow, and then her protector. Ensure that the servants she has been assigned afford her every courtesy; see to her every need." He instructed, and then added as if almost an afterthought, "and report to me upon my return."_

She knew the king did not speak anything as an afterthought, and so for several days, she had followed his command, first watching the timid explorations the young Elf – probably not much older than Tauriel was herself – made of her new surroundings, watching from the shadows, as she became more familiar with the rooms adjacent to the apartments in which she had been given leave to stay.

That also had left many within the halls unsettled and wondering. For millennia, those apartments had lain empty, untouched, and yet, after speaking with her, the king had ordered the rooms be made available to his guest.

Tauriel took a breath to shake off the half-realised awe she felt as she looked on the undeniably beautiful Elf, and finally stepped from out of the shadows, descending the short stair that led down to where she was sitting reading.

Her head was bent over the pages of the book, and her brow furrowed as though in concentration; her golden hair tumbled around her shoulders and the fall of the blue and silver gown sparkled around her like the spray of the many waterfalls that graced the Halls of the Elvenking. It was easy – too easy – to believe the whispers that had begun to fall from lips within the court of the king.

"My Lady," Tauriel said to announce herself, once she reached the foot of the stair, and as the Elf looked up from the book, Tauriel offered her a smile, and bent her head in a brief bow.

"Please," the Elven woman said. Her voice was quiet, melodic and soft in countenance; gentle, though it held an obvious trace of discomfort as she went on. "You do not need to show such graces with me." She folded her hands across the book she had been reading, her fingers almost tight against the edges of it as she looked up at Tauriel, to add, "I think I have seen you round about these past several days."

It was so softly spoken, the admission to Tauriel that she had noticed her constant presence, and yet without any accusation or anything other than honest query in her voice.

"Yes," Tauriel answered, "My Lord Thranduil bade me to watch over you."

The lady Nieniriathlim nodded then, and setting the book aside came to her feet, and holding out her hands to Tauriel, as though she wished for her to take them, she said, "Then you have my thanks. May I know you name?"

In spite of the unexpected feelings, almost of reverence, that she felt for the other Elf Tauriel found herself reaching for, and closing her fingers around the other's hands. The warmth she felt from her was unmistakable.

"Tauriel," she said, squeezing the Elf's fingers softly. "I am a captain of the Woodland Guard."

"Tauriel," the lady Nieniriathlim repeated, then softer yet asked, "Can we walk?"

"If you wish it," Tauriel answered, and released her hands, gesturing away from the two of them. "Where is it that you wish to go?"

The Elven woman shook her head, appearing at once crestfallen and apologetic – a strange expression – as she said, "It is hard to name a destination or desire when all around you is unknown."

Tauriel regarded her carefully, very aware, of a sudden, that she was not simply speaking of the unfamiliarity of her surroundings, and though she did not for one moment cast off her duties as captain of the Woodland guard, and her responsibility for the safety of the Halls, she allowed herself to relax a little, and offered the young Elf a brighter smile.

"Come," she said, and almost chuckled softly, "I know where we can go, where we might speak unhindered by the confines of such walls as these."

The Lady Nieniriathlim reached out then to touch her arm, lightly, but with an unmistakable expression of honest thanks.

"Hanon le," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

* * *

Elrond looked up from the books that littered his desk, a soft frown creasing his face as he registered the presence behind him, hovering in the doorway, and in the next moment the almost apologetic sound of his steward clearing his throat, as though hesitant to disturb him.

"My Lord Elrond," Lindir said softly, "Outriders have spotted a company of Elves nigh upon the Ford of the Bruinen. Spring green silks bearing the deeper green diamond-star, and the White Hart."

Shock ran through Elrond and standing, he turned to give his full attention to the Lindir, and what he was saying.

"Thranduil?" he questioned, though in reality the question was moot – the banners that had been seen announced his presence, "Here?"

"It would appear so, my Lord," Lindir answered, raising an eyebrow at the frown upon his face.

Though he had received many long messages from the Elvenking in recent years, for the most part concerning business with the White Council, he had not seen Thranduil in many centuries; not in fact since his beloved Celebrian had departed for the Undying Lands, and the king, in some unexpected moment of solidarity, had come to him to offer comfort. As he mused on that moment in his past, sighing softly as his enforced solitude enfolded him, he supposed the two of them had always had some kind of unspoken connection. It was not unlike an uncomfortable splinter that each took turns to extract from the other. A close, yet strange and estranged friendship that was nurtured by their shared moments of sorrow, for he had been with Thranduil when his queen had faded even as she tried to save his life.

Thinking on it further, he recognised how much it was a shame. He _liked_ the other Elf, and felt that more than just calamity should draw them together, from time to time. Still, for the king to have arrived unannounced in Imladris…

Shaking his head, he swept toward his steward, knowing they had little time to prepare to receive their visitor in the manner in which he should be welcomed.

"Inform the kitchens. Have guest quarters prepared, and for goodness sake make sure to have several bottles of decent wine brought up from the cellars," he said, and started toward the stair that led down into the courtyard where the visitors would enter Imladris, then calling over his shoulder as he went, even as he heard Lindir's soft steps moving to set in motion all those things that he had just commanded, he added, "And warn my sons that we have visitors and that I shall require their presence at dinner."

"That will not sit well with Elrohir," Lindir offered as he accompanied Elrond part of the way down the stairs. "I believe he and Glorfindel had plans to—"

"Elrohir and Glorfindel will both survive without _one_ evening of constant discussion of horsemanship," he interrupted, and clapped Lindir briefly on the shoulder before they parted ways, and he completed the descent to the courtyard.

He arrived in time to see the Elvenking dismount, and was relieved to see that not only his stable hands, but Imladris' Master of the Stables, had moved to take charge of the horses. He reached the foot of the stair, and placing a hand over his heart, he swept a low bow to the king, acknowledging his status, before reaching out to greet him in the manner of a friend; gripping his arms and drawing him to the shared, mutual embrace.

"Thranduil," he greeted him, "Mae govannen an Imladris."

He drew back then and offered a smile, though his eyes retained a seriousness all the same, and spoke of his concern for his fellow Elf.

"My home and my staff are at your disposal, of course," he added then, gesturing to the stairway he had just descended. "Refreshments, perhaps? I am certain to have a bottle of Winyard that we could share as your recover yourself from your journey."

"Truly your hospitality is unmatched, Lord Elrond," Thranduil answered, nodding officially, and his eyes held the softness of a smile, haunted though it remained.

"Then we shall retire to my study," Elrond suggested, sensing that whatever it was that Thranduil wished to discuss would not wait, in spite of the Elvenking's almost legendary patience. "Though I must crave that you excuse the state of my desk – in disarray as always."

"I did not mean to disturb your work, Elrond," Thranduil answered as they began to ascend the steps together.

Elrond waved away the concern. "Think nothing of it, my friend," he said. "I think perhaps I needed an excuse, after all, to draw my nose from out of musty tomes and scrolls almost as old as we."

Then staying beside the king, maintaining a protocol that would appear to have the higher ranking Elf 'leading' the way, they made their way back up toward the private study, and Elrond could not help but wonder what could possibly have brought the Elvenking so far from the safety of his halls.

Once the door to the study was closed behind them, he heard Thranduil sigh deeply and Elrond crossed to the side of the study where his ever attentive steward had placed a fresh decanter of wine, he lifted off the stopper and poured out two generous cups.

"Intuition tells me," he said, as he poured the wine, "that this visit has very little to do with matters pertaining to the disturbances at Amon Lanc."

"Your intuition," Thranduil answered, with more than a little trace of irony in his voice, "is sharp as always, Elrond. What brings me is a far more personal matter."

"More personal than the safety of your realm?" Elrond turned to him then, gesturing to the low couch that graced the balcony he suggested wordlessly that they should sit. "I do not think, as long as I have known you, that I have ever heard you suggest such a thing."

"Do you not?" Thranduil answered, cradling the cup that Elrond handed to him, and Elrond watched as he lowered himself, as though weighed with weariness, into the couch, crossing his legs, and looking long into the golden darkness of the wine. "I have a guest within my Halls. An Elven maiden that was apprehended as she attempted to make a clandestine entry."

As Thranduil began to speak, Elrond turned to lean upon the balcony rail and lifted a brow in surprise at the manner of his opening, as well as to prompt him to continue.

"She was brought to me as I was dealing with an unsavoury character out of Esgaroth, and I assumed, at first, that she was an accomplice," the king went on, then paused and Elrond watched his attention drift, as though thinking on the matter once more.

"But?" he prompted, the word gathering Thranduil's attention once more, and Elrond found himself feeling unsettled by the king's words as one might when a change in the weather was coming. He would not allow himself to think _a storm_ but the feeling was there, and he found himself much in need of the tranquillity of Imladris' gardens.

"As she was about to be taken away she said three words... _Heleg ad gwilith_."

Elrond blinked, trying to keep his face an impassive mask. He had known only one person who had ever spoken such words of Thranduil – those exact words, to be precise. Was it possible? He recalled the dreadful day that had been the Queen of Greenwood's passing. The way he had done all but risk his own life to prevent her fading - all in vain. He looked over at Thranduil as the king finally made the admission that confirmed Elrond's line of thinking, and unable to school his expression any more, Elrond looked away, out over the gardens.

"When she drew back her cowl, her face was an echo of one I thought I would never see again," Thranduil said, and in the spray of mist that drew rainbows before the vista of the gardens, Elrond saw the ageless face, the gentle beauty and the tireless wisdom that had been Queen Celyndailiel, as if a vision out of time - though whether a herald of the future, or an echo of the past, he could not yet tell.

"And yet," he said to Thranduil, "you hesitate to speak her name; to allow yourself to believe that what you saw could be the fulfilment of the promise she made to you? Such a return is not without precedent."

He made the challenge lightly, though he respected Thranduil's caution. In such an age as the one in which they found themselves, with Shadow rising on all sides, it did little harm to err on the side of caution.

He turned back to face the king just as Thranduil looked up at him. Their eyes clashed – the icy, winter blue, and deep midnight meeting like the storm that aeons passed had existed between their two heritages, but age and wisdom, and many shared troubles had dissolved ancient enmities, and after a time, Elrond saw Thranduil nod almost imperceptibly.

With a soft sigh, he said, "The name I could not speak is all that my heart has desired for millennia. I dare not trust my judgement entirely, for I fear I will see what is not there."

Elrond nodded, and moved to sit, as he considered Thranduil's words carefully, feeling the weight of emotion behind them, and moreover, considered his own, next words carefully. Thranduil had obviously come to him seeking advice; seeking what comfort that Elrond could give to him, and if he could help it, he did not intend to deny the king that which he needed.

That did not mean, however, that he should avoid the utterance of words and thoughts that might be difficult, perhaps even painful, both in the speaking and the hearing of them.

He sipped momentarily at his own goblet of wine, and spent a long moment in contemplation of Thranduil's soft frown and his own thoughts, before he spoke again.

"Whether she is, or is not, your beloved Celyndailiel returned to you," he said softly, and his use of her name was quite deliberate, "the time you have ahead of you is one that could test your patience and endurance. I assume that your journey here was not prompted only by the likeness you saw in her face, and her naming of you as Ice and Starlight? Were there... other things that led you to the conclusion that she might be so?"

He set down his goblet then, and steepled his hands before his face, as if in contemplation, drawing to his mind the quiet he needed to allow his inner vision to awake.

"Your assumptions are just," Thranduil said, and his voice became both soft and rougher with emotion. "The way she speaks, the words she uses, the very way she moves... and when she is near, I can sense her mind, as if in the distance, or behind a veil. So very close and yet..."

Elrond listened to Thranduil's answer and the tone of his voice, and reached out to gain the sense of all he could feel from the king. Beyond the uncertainty, beneath the weariness that was belied in the seemingly unshakable poise Thranduil always displayed, in the silence between the words that the Elvenking said, and did not say, the Lord of Imladris felt the unmistakable tug of mingled fear, and hope… of need.

"I know her so well, Elrond, and it has been too long since I felt the meeting of our Spirits," Thranduil said with a sigh, and shook his head. "I know you understand that."

"It waxes and it wanes, Thranduil," Elrond said softly, speaking to his own connection with his distant and absent, beloved Celebrian, as Thranduil had. "Like the moon."

Thranduil sighed again, and closed his eyes as if to focus his own thought. Then barely audible, asked with a doubt in his voice that Elrond had not heard in him since before dawning of the Age.

"Can there be such a fell magic or illusion as can fool even the deepest senses of those of us who love beyond all reason?"

"Take heart, my Lord King," Elrond said slowly, and from deep within, sensing all he could from Thranduil, "for other than what lingers in the South of your once fair realm, I feel not the sting of Shadow around your heart," but then he took a breath, and equally as solemnly added, "Yet… ever has the Enemy dogged our steps and haunted the peace in which we would encompass Middle Earth. You know that as well as I, Thranduil, for you were _there_ when even Celebrimbor was all but fooled."

"And had it not then been for Celyn-dailiel…"

Elrond did not miss the difficulty with which Thranduil spoke her name, the catch in his voice unmistakable and allowing the weight of sight to fall away he reached out to put a hand onto the king's arm.

"Rest, Mellon," he said. "This riddle will not solve itself with one short conversation. I have a suite of room prepared for you. Give me time to consult the gathered Lore of Imladris' many tomes, and we shall speak again, at length and well into the night, if needs be."

He looked up, as did Thranduil, when Lindir, as though he had been summoned, appeared in the study's doorway.

"You are right," Thranduil answered Elrond, with the twitch of a smile at his firm lips. "And at dinner, perhaps, I can trouble you with another Matter of State."

Elrond groaned, good natured, knowing full well of what the king spoke. He had touched upon its subject after all.

"My hands are tied, Thranduil," he said, "You know this."

"Istan, hir nín," he answered, "And I would have you find a way to _un_tie them."

Elrond chuckled, and standing as Thranduil did, he clasped the king gently on the shoulder, promising softly, "Were it within my power, you would already have that which you desire. Go now with Lindir. He will show you to your accommodations.

"Until dinner, then, my friend," Thranduil bowed his head as he took his leave of Elrond

"Indeed," Elrond answered, "And I shall bide my time until then in discovery of all that I may."

As Thranduil, moved to follow Lindir, Elrond left the study behind them, descending to the library, to begin his search. He knew exactly where he would begin, with a tale… a _history_ that was told to every Elf while still in the cradle – one that transcended death itself: Trenarn o Lúthien Tinúviel.

* * *

Hanon le – thank you

Mae govannen an Imladris – welcome to Rivendell

Heleg ad gwilith – ice and starlight

Istan, hir nín – Yes, my lord (Literally 'I know' my lord, because the previous sentence Elrond had said 'you know this')

Trenarn o Lúthien Tinúviel – account of Lúthien Tinúviel

The quotation at the head of the chapter is the Sindarin translation of the question Thranduil puts to Elrond in fear that there could be fell magic that could fool even those that love beyond all reason – sometimes you have to get really creative with languages… English included.

In the crafting of this chapter I wish to once again thank Nancy for her help, her ear and simply for being there.


	9. Man Gernin Agor Athrahan?

**Laer o Faen**

Nine

First Age of Middle Earth – 537

_I Valar u-annar rûth na le an melch, dan le belch ad úgerth. Le minui dagant nothrim!_

The melody of the ocean caressed his ears. The breath of the wind through the silk of his hair soothed the tumult that raged more fiercely within his heart than the waves that broke against the rocks of the bay below the cliffs on which he stood. The cry of gulls overhead voiced the quiet anguish that he remained unable to express.

Thranduil drew in a deep breath of the salt air, and let it out as a long, slow sigh. So much loss… so much strife.

"I thought I might find you here."

He turned his head to watch as Gil-galad crested the rise, then when the king drew close enough turned and offered a bow.

"My Lord," he greeted the High King.

"Get up, Thranduil," Gil-galad said softly, if with a touch of exasperation in his voice. "You need not take on airs and graces, we are far too near in age for that, especially when we are alone."

Thranduil straightened, turning his head again out to sea as the king stepped up to his side. Both gazed westward, and both of them, almost as one, reached to secure portions of their long hair, the one shining white-blonde the other a darker golden hue, that was teased by the stiff breezes atop the cliff.

"Let us leave obeisance to those strutting peacocks below who are old enough to know better, hmm?" Gil-galad offered with a smile.

Thranduil's lips twitched in his own smile at this, and turning again toward the king said, "Those 'strutting peacocks' are your subjects and advisors, my lord king."

"Exactly," Gil-galad said, with a much aggrieved expression on his face, "And you've more wisdom in your little finger than all of them combined."

Thranduil let out a long, slow sigh. He doubted the truth of that even though, not yet into his second century, he felt as though he carried the weight of mountains upon his youthful shoulders.

"Mana suriëlye?"

Thranduil shook his head.

"Aniron hîdh, Gil-galad," Thranduil answered, though understanding the other Elf, his conditioned raising allowed him not to respond in kind, "dan…"

He trailed off, taking a long breath as he turned his face back out to face the west, and the sound of the rolling waves.

"You fear it will be long in coming," Gil-galad voiced what Thranduil could not bring himself to say, lest in the speaking of it, he conjured it somehow into being.

He nodded, his eyes still closed.

"I fear my mother may have been right," he confessed then. "And that if I could somehow have avoided battled in Doriath I would be spared that which is to come – for come it will. It is only a matter of time."

"If you had not fought in Doriath, mellon nîn, you would now be among those that dwell in the Halls of Mandos."

"As is my mother," Thranduil sighed, and ran a tired hand across his forehead.

"Forgive me." He felt Gil-galad's hand grip his shoulder as the High King's words reached his ears. "I spoke without thought."

Again he shook his head.

"What is to forgive when it is the truth?" he asked, then opening his eyes and turning to Gil-galad he continued, "When even here, after so many years, peace is uneasy at best. What will it be when they catch up to us once more?"

Gil-galad's face grew grave, and Thranduil felt his stomach tighten in fear, turning fully to cast his eyes down to the settlement, half expecting to see a ruin of fire and wrath ringed around the peaceful vista.

"Your lord father has returned," Gil-galad finally divulged the reason for his coming to find him, "He has called a council. He has news, and I need your level headed wisdom there for all that he outranks you."

"You cannot pit me against my father," Thranduil told him bluntly, familial loyalty holding strong, in spite of his own reservations, his own needs.

Gil-galad shook his head.

"All I ask is that you speak your mind, Thranduil," he said, "As you did when first we came from Gondolin; Noldrorin refugees among Sindarin survivors of the Second Kinslaying. If we are to survive a third, if we are to have a hope of holding against the forces of Morgoth, should _they_ come upon us, then we _need_ to stand united – one kin: Edhelrim, not Gódhellim or Eluwaith."

Thranduil sighed.

"And you believe they will listen to me?" he asked, his doubt clear in the tone of his voice. "Those _strutting peacocks_; my father?"

Gil-galad shrugged, and then favoured Thranduil with one of his rare, lopsided smiles.

"We stand more of a chance of them listening to the both of us, than one voice alone," he said. "Even if that voice _is_ mine."

* * *

Thranduil sat, alert and uncomfortable at his father's side as the voices of the families' elders, raised in argument, all striving to be heard, filled the overcrowded council hall. Few, who could be counted on the fingers of one hand, remained quiet – listening, weighing the pieces of argument that could be more clearly heard than others.

His father was among them.

Thranduil could tell from the schooled expression on Oropher's face, the way he moved only his eyes among the gathered throng that this was his father's intent – he knew the signs and he waited; himself listening.

"We cannot trust our defence to the kin of…" "Where were Thingol's people when…?" "How do we know they won't…?" "There are none that can stand against…" "Those who _take_ what they want can only…"

On and ever darker the comments and accusations, until Thranduil found himself becoming almost breathless with hurt – a hurt he could not quite understand. He had lived through the same prejudices, the same events, the same history – how then could it be that _he_ could more than see, could _feel_ the necessity to set the past aside.

He lifted his gaze, and across the gathering locked his troubled eyes with those of Gil-galad. Was it their relative youth that allowed them to put aside, if not comfortably, the troubles of the past to recognise the needs of the present?

"My Lords…"

His father's voice, though barely raised, cut across the rising din to draw the hall back to a discontented murmur, the way a rider might rein in a horse.

"My Lords," he repeated, supressing even that uncomfortable hum, "Dissention, while understandable, does not address the very real and current threat that stands _beyond_ our issue with the Kinslayers."

Thranduil cringed at his father's decision to uphold the hurts of the past with his choice of words and for a moment he closed his eyes, before looking down at his hands, feeling almost as if it were – again – his responsibility to take up the briefly worn mantle of authority he had assumed at the falling away of the rage he had felt toward Maedhros when they last met.

For a moment the image rebuilt itself in his mind. Dior the Fair, slain and staring, his hand outstretched as if in appeal to the gentle Nimloth, who had been wife and queen to the King of Doriath. Innocent he had named her then, but sitting there in the council of vicious and bitter elders, he found himself asking, were _any _of them truly so?

"As we sit in debate," his father continued, "the gathering hordes of Morgoth begin a march that _will_ bring them to our door. Perhaps not in the coming season, perhaps not even for the passing of a coranar, but come they will."

"Yet it is not the advance of Morgoth we are here to _debate_."

An Elf that Thranduil recognised – more for the appearance of his kinsman, for they were of a likeness, this Elf and his brother, Galathil – rose to his feet to stand opposite to Oropher. It was Celeborn, who, though a prince of Doriath, had bound himself in love to the White Lady, a Noldor of the house of Finarfin. His lady wife was among those few to whom Thingol had offered welcome in Doriath for their close kinship with his brother, Olwë. Celeborn and Galadriel had come and gone often, dwelling not in Doriath, but with kin to the White Lady, and though she herself had great friendship with Melian, it seemed to Thranduil that Celeborn found issue in some ways of Thingol's governance that made it easier for him to remain with his wife in estrangement of his own kinsmen.

Thranduil could not help but think it telling that the Lady herself remained absent from the council.

"My Lord Celeborn," Oropher acknowledged the other Elf, though Thranduil detected, in his father's voice, a note – though well hidden – of a harsher opinion yet.

"Oropher, you brought word to us here," Celeborn went on without preamble, "that the Sons of Fëanor have learned of Elwing's possession of the jewel. Morgoth… is of no concern here in this hall at this time."

"Of no concern?" His father, too, rose to his feet and turned to face the Elf prince.

Thranduil felt Gil-galad's gaze fall upon him, and knew that when he looked up, he would see the light of hope and expectation in the other Elf's eyes. Instead he sighed deeply and closed his eyes again. Why he? What could _he_ say that would change the tide of all these bitterly dissenting voices? What did the High King see in him that put such faith – misguided to Thranduil's eyes – in him?

"Even were the entire host of the Eldar, here in the East and from the Blessed Land to unite, and fight under a single banner, we have not the power to defeat Morgoth. We must – _must_ – concentrate our sights upon those foe against which we can prevail." Celeborn said.

"Are those _your_ words, my Lord, or those of your—"

"It matters not," Celeborn interrupted, his voice clipped with an irritation that was barely contained. "For my wife and I are of an accord in this." He turned his angry gaze from Oropher and looked out in appeal of support over the other lords and heads of family gathered in the room. "We, here, have a duty of care to protect our people, our families, from those very foe that we have been warned know of the Jewel that has, and will again, bring them against us."

"Us?" Oropher challenged softly, and likely, Thranduil surmised, in ire.

"Yes, _us_." Celeborn snapped, spinning back to face Oropher. "I have already keenly felt the loss of my kinsman's son and grandsons, I _will not_ let my great-kinswoman suffer the same fate!"

"Then perhaps," Oropher returned, deathly calm though Thranduil fancied he could feel his father's frustration and fear which fuelled the otherwise uncharacteristic public challenge, "your wife's family will—"

It bordered on insult, and the fact was not missed as others in the hall once more abandoned restraint and returned to their unfettered bickering. Thranduil recalled the bitter sight of his dying mother held in his father's arms in Menegroth's great hall and he could stand the squabbling no more.

He stood, a breath away from avoiding his father's restraining grasp that fell impotent against his wrist, and crossed the chamber toward the door even as Gil-galad's strong, commanding voice rang out, a bell-like peal that brought the hall to silence. He did not stop even then, until a yet more unyielding tone from the king called out his name.

"Thranduil," Gil-galad's voice, though, was warm beneath the harshness of his words. "I did not give you leave to depart these proceedings. I bid you attend because I required your counsel, I require it still."

Cornered, however, Thranduil did not appreciate that warmth, and turned to face the many gazes that were cast his way.

"To what end? They will not listen." he said, the words in voice of his own fears and frustrations fell from his lips with matching bitterness in his gaze if not his tone, and to the assembled Lords he addressed the pain in his heart. "Can you not hear yourselves? You were, all of you, there in Doriath, or in Gondolin, when the acts of kin against kin through jealousy and greed brought the awakening of shadow in _all_ our hearts and sowed death among us like spores; seed of ignorance that we have allowed to fester and grow to be a part of our world."

He stepped slowly forward as he spoke, looking into the faces of friends, and of those who were strangers to him alike, walking almost full circle as he spoke to bring himself back to his place nearby the door.

"Prince Celeborn is right," he said, and the Elven lord raised as hand as though to stop him, but he went on anyway, "We must first stand – united – against this most immediate threat, and only in defence, for so too my father speaks the truth, and we must stand ready to face the threat of Morgoth. We in the Haven of Sirion stand as the last bastion of safety against his hordes, and whether we have the strength to hold or not, war is coming. We must face it and remain free, even unto death, or fall to the poison of the Great Enemy's ceaseless malice that was cast upon the world ere it was yet realised in the music that has grown faint to our ears."

Silence weighed heavy for a time, pregnant with sorrow and shame, before a light, clear voice spoke, for but a moment, awakening the music he had named as lost within their souls.

"He speaks well, and wisely."

Elwing's soft footsteps approached from the doorway behind him, and he felt the touch of her hand in the small of his back as she came to a halt beside him, and turned his head, dipping it slightly in recognition and respect.

"But it is moot," she went on, "For if those who took and murdered my brothers come here, then you will fight – all of you…" her hand tightened on Thranduil's back, and subtly, he moved closer, feeling her fear, and in the absence of her husband he would protect his dear friend who had shared with him so much loss. "…no matter the cost."

* * *

_'…No matter the cost…'_

_The words echo in his head between each beat – the hammering of his heart – almost as slow as the rage the surf pounds against the base of the cliff._

_"Elwing, meldis, manen toll hen?" The words rasp through his constricted throat, the leather about it tightens as the strength of his arm and shoulder struggle yet more to keep him suspended, and he laments._

_'…Who is left to tell Eärendil when he returns?'_

The Havens of Sirion lay in ruins around him and he stood, almost shoulder to shoulder with Galathil, pushing back against an oncoming wall of warriors loyal to the brothers Fëanor – graceless brutes that lay waste to all against which they came. Already, encircling fires burned and the stench of burning flesh, and running blood overwhelmed even the salty freshness of the ocean.

Barely a year had passed since his father had brought word that the sons of Fëanor knew that Elwing had the Silmaril, and this time around there was no warning, no parlay – peaceful or of demand – the day simply dawned red with the blood of Gil-galad's outriders, and smoke and ash from the burning of the wolds muddied that sanguine dawn beyond any hope of redemption.

"Thranduil," Galathil's urgent and exhausted voice reached him through the clash of fine Elven steel against the baser blades of his foe, and Thranduil risked a glance in his direction, drawn apart from the other elf as they moved in the battle. "We two alone cannot hold them."

He shook his head, pain and anger mingling in his countenance as he ran his blade through the leather armour of the man before him. Two alone… they could _not_ be all that remained of his kin, the Elves of Sirion – they surely must have been able to stand, after all through which they had survived. Surely this would not be their end.

"We must give them time," he said, speaking of Elwing and her household, pulling his sword free before the remaining foe overwhelmed him. He felt the sting of heat beneath his pauldron as if in warning not to underestimate the strength of those that stood as his enemy and engaged in battle with this new foe.

…_No matter the cost…_

He hissed to banish the pain of the human warrior's strike against him, and spinning through almost a full circle, he cleaved the offender's head cleanly from his shoulders, kicking away the corpse as it fell, still twitching, beside him.

"There _is_ no more time," Galathil warned, gesturing toward the headland, where Elwing had gone. Thranduil turned his head to look, and his heart and stomach both lurched as he saw the group of Elves and men who even now, climbed the slope in pursuit of his friends and kinsmen. "We cannot hold them _here_ and give aid where she will need us most!"

If they reached the headland before Elwing could lead her sons and what was left of her household from the bluff and to safety, they would be trapped, and no doubt slaughtered where they stood. Galathil was right, they were out of time and he had no remaining options.

As if his desperate thoughts had conjured them, a small group of Gil-galad's warriors burst from the burning woodland nearby, bloodied blades drawn and raised, and recognising allies in Thranduil and Galathil, they sped toward them.

"Ereinion reviar o forven. I adar lin nôr rhuven," one of the Elves called as they joined the fray. "Man sâd i riel?"

"Or sí," Thranduil called back as another of the gathered foe struck out against him and he met the attack.

"He boe bronio," the king's guard said with such urgent compulsion that every nerve in Thranduil's body, though he was already in accord with the command, wrought greater torment through the whole of him. "Geritham huin. Gwao! Berio sen!"

Uttering curses, fighting his way free, Thranduil swept away from the from the remaining human warriors, his place in the battle taken by the warriors of the king's guard and by way of the narrow path he often took himself, headed for the open headland atop the cliff and Galathil at his heels.

_'…thar abdollen…'_

_Breathless… his lungs burn in want of air and his vision of the lowering sun wavers as if in greater heat than the dimming of the bitter day affords._

_"Goheno nin. Man gernin agor athrahan?" He reaches up to slip the fingers of his left hand, slick with the blood that trails along his inner arm, beneath the leather that coils around his neck, a serpentine noose._

_'…Uideritha han?'_

The corpses of maid and steward alike littered the clifftop as he crested the path, and he fought despair – the first of his foes – as he set his terrified gaze to the small knot of stalwart defenders, cornered against the rocky promontory's westernmost tip. He did not pause. He did not think of his own safety, simply increased his pace, already labouring in fatigue, to drive into the side of the closest attacker, sparing nothing as he took him down.

"To me!" he ordered, already turning to put himself between the oncoming wall of wheeling blades and those trapped against the cliff's edge, where hopelessness had sewn seeds of disorganisation among those left alive to defend their royal lady. "Push back… we must push them back."

If he did not give the family room to find their way to freedom, then no matter how heroic their stand, it would all have been for nothing, and to reach the path away from the headland they _must_ move away from the edge.

A slender form, dark of hair moved at his side, raised the fine blade he wielded, and growled; an adolescent bear among Elves otherwise seasoned, not to battle, but to peace and study. It took him several moments to realise who it was, and then a further moment to both angle his own primary blade to catch the enemy's descending strike. He shifted his offhand weapon so that he could safely reach to push the youth back, as another defender took the immediate danger of battle away from them and the few remaining guards of the household all but formed a wall between their lady and the forward push of their foe.

"Elros, go to your mother," he ordered harshly, and then to soften the blow added, "Stand at her side, in _her_ defence, not in mine."

The twin was not fooled, not for one moment.

"I know how to fight, Thranduil," he insisted.

"Besides," a softer voice at his other side drew his gaze away from the fiery-eyed child, into the midnight gaze of the Princess of Doriath. "Where would he stand, when _you_ are at my side?"

For a moment he considered ordering her away, but the cold determination he saw in her face, frightening to realise, told him more than ever that he would be speaking without hope of being heard. His quick mind sought another way, and shifting both long blades to his off-hand for a moment, he reached for the short knife at his waist and pressed the hilt of it into one of Elwing's hands, and tucked the other of her hands into the side of his belt, just behind his scabbard.

"Then stay at my side," he instructed, both his expression and tone meant to tell her not to give argument to his words, "and keep your sons close, for the moment they break we make for the coomb path down. By Ereinion's word and by the conscience of my heart, I must get you to safety."

She nodded once, and he saw she understood, then he turned back to the narrow wall of the household guard, watching for the break, looking for the gap that _he_ could fill, but which would force her to remain behind him until they were ready to make their assay – safe from the threat of warriors more experienced than she.

There are moments when fate denies the wishes of one's heart and sets one's feet upon another path than the one intended; when no matter how fervently an attempt is made to avoid a certain end, that end will come nonetheless. He would forever afterward wonder if this were such a time; if Elwing was destined to leave Middle Earth that day, never to be seen again upon its shores and within its woodlands – whether by the hand of Fëanor's sons, or by her own – or perhaps by some flaw or failure in himself that such would come to pass. Yet, even as he rejoined the battle, finding such a place as he had wanted, where he could fight to uphold the defensive line _and_ keep Elwing from the mounting assault, such a moment came upon them and a part of him recognised the doom that was upon them all.

One by one, the defenders fell, succumbed to hack and thrust of cold steel; voices once raised in laughter and in song forever silenced, and others set to sound only in grief and loss, but in their sacrifice, little by little, step by step, Thranduil drew Elwing and her sons ever closer to the promise of freedom – of an escape, eastward to rendezvous with his father, or with those that had, early on, broken through the gathering twilight into the brief day beyond. He did not think to hope for the timely arrival of the king. Such hope faded with each passing moment.

A flash of red to the left caught his eye and, barely in time, he turned and in the same motion pushed hard with out-thrown arm against young Elros' chest, and in a corkscrew movement pulled Elwing until she was directly at his back.

Unbalanced, Elros fell, and Elrond dropped to his twin's side a hand pressed against his brother's chest to keep him down. Elwing jostled against Thranduil's back, and the incoming arrow splintered the already damaged metal of his pauldron, the tip embedded, but shallow, within the flesh of his shoulder beneath.

There was no time to voice the sharp shock of it, nor to do other than reach across and snap the already weakened shaft as he sidestepped to put himself between the boys and the dozen or so newcomers who crested the path to the headland in that moment.

"You must make your break," he hissed half across his shoulder, "Elrond, Elros, take your mother and—"

"Thranduil…!" Elwing's soft, trembling exclamation stopped his words, and facing front once more, he saw the line of the enemy, all arrayed before them, bows draw; their end at hand.

"Wait!"

The single word of command came from over to his left, where before he had spied the flash of red, and as the band of Elves, under the command of the surviving sons of Fëanor obeyed the call to hold their aim but release no shot, he turned his head enough to see a familiar, detested figure step forward from among the warriors of the Cursed Noldor.

"Oropherion, unless I miss my guess," Maedhros called across the short distance as, slowly, ever imperceptible Thranduil began to inch Elwing backward, and following his lead, Elrond drew his bother to his feet and moved in closer beside his mother. "We have crossed swords once before, you and I."

"I remember," Thranduil answered, guiding the others back another step as he watched the equally slow retreat of the few defenders, and for the first time noticed Galathil among them.

"You spared my life then," Maedhros said, stepping forward from the line of archers, though Thranduil could see he was careful to keep from between them. "I never was sure why… given the way I knew you felt; all that had been done, but… a life is a life, and since I failed to do as you had set as my condition I believe a debt stands between us – unpaid."

"Then let them go," Thranduil said, knowing at once by the cold smile that appeared on Maedhros's face that no such agreement would be made that day. The Noldor Elder brother confirmed his fear a moment later.

"Only get her to give up what is ours and we will leave this place," Maglor said stepping forward to his brother's side. "End this curse upon us all. You have that power."

Thranduil felt Elwing's hand tighten at his back, and knew what she would say, and knew without a shadow of doubt that no one in Middle Earth had that power, save the Sons themselves, and perhaps not even then. He shook his head.

"It will never be ended," he said, "It _can_ never be, for it seems it is within our nature to covet – be it beauty, or knowledge – both. It is all the same. We will never be free of it, for I believe it has been sung into our very being."

"And yet the Valar would still punish us for it?" Maedhros spat, as his brother came to a halt at his side.

The two began, slowly, to push forward, and though some of their bondsmen lowered their bows and advanced along with them, enough remained with arrows knocked that the hope of escape was dashed before it began.

"The Valar punish _you, _though not for your covetousness," Elwing spoke up, as she slipped her hand from Thranduil's belt and gathered both her sons to her. "But for your cruelty and shame. You it was that first slay Kin!"

"Ah, she speaks, the princess of Doriath, Elwing the white," Maedhros gave a mocking half bow, before he took another step forward. "The Silmaril… _my lady, _and all this can be ended."

She took another step back, releasing her sons, and Thranduil retreated with her, and across the short distance between them caught Galathil's eye, reading the same thought in his kinsman's face. They had to act. They were trapped, and there was but one course left to them, one that would likely bring their end.

He flexed his fingers around the hilt of his offhand blade, the ache in his shoulder blossomed into true pain, a pain that he bit down upon and then looked with appeal toward the brothers of the House of Fëanor.

"Maedhros, Maglor, you _know_ she speaks the truth," he said. "This will end but badly if you do not heed—"

The brothers took another step closer, hands tight about the hilts of their blades and both Thranduil and Galathil raised their own.

"Surrender the Silmaril, Elwing, or we will have no choice but to take it by—"

"Ynen, Uimelathon lle."

Elwing's quietly spoken words sent a chill through Thranduil's blood, one that had him turn in time to witness, with a horror dawning brighter than the first sunrise, as she took one last step back before turning and almost without pause, without that he had even the time to cry her name, she stepped into the open air as if trusting the sound of the open surf below alone to hold her aloft.

"Naneth!"

Elrond's cry released his inertia, and as the youth lunged toward Elwing, as she began to fall, Thranduil caught Elrond around the waist and pulled the struggling youth bodily away from the edge of the cliff as his twin brother, with a wordless cry of utter desolation, sank to his knees.

"Elrond, Lau!" Thranduil cried, fighting with the boy as he sought to follow his mother. "U-gerich anno edraith sen! U-geri—"

From the ocean below a percussive roar of sound and light blossomed, shaking the ground. It rendered the very air around him hostile, taking his feet from under him as heat and light rolled over the headland, and he lost his hold on Elrond, seeing him flung far from the edge of the cliff by the blast, closer to the enemy, though they too had fallen.

His lungs burned with the effort of drawing breath in the wake of what could only been a burst of magic of the deepest kind, he fought to move but found himself paralysed. His eyes blurred as he forced them open, but as he did, the sight of a sea bird, rising to the paling sky – great white wings spread against the buffeting winds, so bright they were almost silver with a glow of benediction.

The bird wheeled overhead a full turn, before tipping its wings and heading to the west.

"Eru!" Thranduil gasped, trying again but failing to rise. He rolled to his side, breathless and winded, the pain in his injured shoulder far more noticeable now.

Every sense of danger peaked in him as the world sharpened into focus once more, and he forced his knees beneath him, rising unsteadily and lifting his head to see Maedhros and Maglor already on their feet, the dark haired Fëanor brother held the limp figure of Elrond beneath one arm, calling for retreat, two of his thralls reaching for the equally insensate Elros from the ground nearby.

Thranduil turned his head as his trembling legs gave beneath him, and he stumbled back to his knees, and saw Galathil already arisen, though the other Elf stood unfocussed.

"Galathil," he called in warning, his own strength returning, but too slowly, "They have the boys… take them down! Dago huin!"

Even as he made the call to his kinsman for rescue for the twins, Maedhros – red hair flying in the air like a blood soaked banner – crossed the almost visibly trembling space between them, and without mercy, buried his sword in Galathil's belly, twisting the steel upward with the cruel thrust, to still the beating of his heart.

A surge of hurt and anger deep within him cleared the fog and freed Thranduil from the lingering after effects of the magic that had burst over them, as he watched Galathil's expression change from one of confusion, to momentary pain, then slacken as he began to fall. Maedhros pushed him away as his body toppled, and crying out, wordless, in expression of the sheer emotional agony that possessed him at all that had come to pass, Thranduil charged at the eldest of House Fëanor, all hope of finesse abandoned to his rage, meaning to take Maedhros from his feet.

Maedhros empty fist came up, away from the still falling Galathil, and caught Thranduil's leading side, half spinning him, only then to close his mailed fingers around the arrow-wounded shoulder that Thranduil had, in his charge, protected.

New pain blinded him, but spurred to act he fought, and fought hard, bringing both hands up against Maedhros's wrist, seeking to deaden the nerve, loosen the hold.

"They're but _children_!" he snarled, as he stumbled back, freed from Maedhros' grasp, but before he could regain his balance Maedhros kicked out, his foot connecting hard with Thranduil's knee. It buckled beneath him.

"And they are as lost to you, to your kin, as the Silmarils to _us_!" Maedhros growled, and uncoiled a long leather war-whip from his belt.

Struggling to his feet, despite the weakness of his knee, Thranduil snatched up the nearest blade, meaning to strike at Maedhros; meaning to show him how wrong he was – to protect the children.

A sharp crack split the air, like lightning in a summer storm and heat, as though the storm's power had gone through him, burned around Thranduil's throat. He felt himself pulled forward before he realised what had happened, that Maedhros' whip had coiled, serpent like – and it occurred to him in that moment that it was the perfect weapon for one as lost to shadow as Maedhros, and beyond even the belief of his own heart, the acceptance that this Elf was beyond redemption was as painful as the hurts of his body.

There was no time to indulge such despair, and as he pitched toward the red-headed Noldor, Maedhros, flicked his wrist and wound another loop of leather around Thranduil's throat and swept his feet from under him and if the fall had not knocked the breath from his lungs, the kick that followed would have. Stunned and unable to stop himself he felt himself he roll toward the cliff edge, closer and ever closer.

"Join her, since you were so desperate to protect her," Maedhros continued his snarling diatribe, "to uphold her misplaced right to the Sacred Jewel for which my family gave _everything_…"

"…brought… upon yourselves!" Thranduil gasped, clawing at his neck in an effort untangle the leather from around his throat, but Maedhros only pulled it tighter.

"No relief from estrangement from our home," another kick, "the music of the sea," and again, "the light of the stars… beyond us now we—"

"Maedhros!" Maglor's voice interrupted his brother's words and actions, "Lau! I ven u-na hen. He is right…"

The pressure at Thranduil's neck slackened, the pain transferred to his scalp as Maedhros released the whip and halted his roll toward the edge by grabbing a handful of his battle braided hair.

"…He is right," Maglor repeated, "We brought this on ourselves with our oath, our curse, and as you have said, to this one you owe your life."

Thranduil made another assay for freedom, heedless of the danger of the void so close to where Maedhros held him, heedless of the added pain his struggles wrought, and gasping, near to desperation once more demanded the release of Elwing's children.

"They were not…" he rasped, clawing ineffectually at Maedhros hand as he made his appeal, "…even born… when all of this began. Let them go. Show them mercy!"

"They are beyond you now," Maedhros hissed in his ear, "but this oath I shall make to _you_, Thranduil Oropherion of Thingol's House: if you should survive this day, and we should meet again, with no debt between us of a life for a life, then I _will_ end yours."

As he spoke, the Fëanorian wedged the handle of the whip into a narrow crack in the rocky edge of the headland, and realising his mortal peril at last, Thranduil's struggles redoubled as Maedhros brought him to the crumbling lip of the land, with naught but air and the sound of pounding surf between him and the rocks beneath.

And then he let him go.

The sensation of the fall turned Thranduil's stomach inside out as it rose inside of him, his heart all but ceasing to beat at the seeming weightlessness of it, yet his mind maintained presence enough to grasp at the leather and wind his arm around it so that when it reached the extent of its play and the earth's crack caught him up, suspended, it was his arm and shoulder that bore the brunt of his weight, cutting into the flesh of his hand, jarring against his shoulder, before the leather drew tighter yet around his already constricted throat, and there he hung, swinging in the buffeting breath of Ulmo's wrath at the headland's tip.

'_No matter the cost_,' he thought bitterly, and the words echoed in his head between each hammering beat of his heart that kept slow time with the rage of the sea at the base of the cliff beneath him.

"Elwing, meldis, manen toll hen?" The words, forced through his constricted throat were snatched away on the wind and the leather about his neck tightened still further as the strength of his arm and shoulder began to fail.

'_Who is left to tell Eärendil when he returns?_'

In his mind he replayed the fall of each of his kinsmen, Galathil last of all – falling ever backwards onto the green headland, the cruel thrust of Maedhros blade biting at his heart.

'_Thar abdollen_'

Breathless… his lungs burned in want of air and his vision of the lowering sun wavered as if in greater heat than the dimming of the bitter day afforded.

"Goheno nin. Man gernin agor athrahan?" He reached up to slip the fingers of his left hand, slick with the blood that ran along his inner arm, beneath the leather that coiled around his neck, a serpentine noose.

'_Uideritha han?_'

And the words of a softer voice, a melody, slipped into his mind with the softness of a feather, the lightness of a farewell kiss:

_'…Watch for the hand of the Valar… Watch for the hand of the Valar… Watch for the hand of the Valar…'_

* * *

Mana suriëlye – (Quenya) What do you seek?

Aniron hîdh – I need peace (Lit: I desire peace)

Dan – but

Edhelrim – Elves

Gódhellim – Noldorin elves

Eluwaith – Sindarin elves (of Doriath, Thingol's subjects)

Coranar – solar year

Meldis, manen toll hen? – My friend, how did it come to this?

Ereinion reviar o forven. I adar lin nôr rhuven – Ereinion (Gil-galad) sails from the north. Your father rides east

Man sâd i riel? – Where is the princess?

Or sí – above

He boe bronio – she must survive

Geritham huin. Gwao! Berio sen – We will hold them. Go! Protect her.

thar abdollen – too late

Goheno nin – forgive me

Man gernin agor athrahan? – What more could I do? [lit: What could I do beyond it (i.e. that which I did)]

Uideritha han? – When will it end? [Lit: Ever will it end?]

Ynen, Uimelathon lle – my sons, I will always love you.

Naneth! – Mother!

Dago huin! – kill them!

Lau! I ven u-na hen – No! This is not the way.

The quotation at the head of the chapter represents Elwing's castigation of House Fëanor – the words she speaks to Maedhros as he mocks her. _The Valar do not punish you for your greed, but because you are cruel and for your ill deeds. You are the first kin slayers!_ (More or less anyway).


	10. Ely Dûr

**Laer o Faen**

Ten

Third Age of Middle Earth – 2840

_Tirio an i gam Valion_

Thranduil lounged, half reclined on the deeply padded chaise on the terrace of the apartments in Rivendell that had been made his. Not far to his side, the soft spray from one of the many waterfalls cast rainbows, like teardrops, into the late afternoon and the bubbling water that tumbled to the basin of the pool at the terrace's side sang sweetly to ears far distant in the restorative dreaming of his Elven reverie.

Lost in memory was his mind, his sight lingering in the beauty of the time between the present and his thoughts – thoughts of a gentler day, a long ago garden and the hand of the one with whom he shared it held in his own.

It had been an age… longer than an age since he had heard her sweet voice, felt the softness of her hands soothing the troubles of past, mitigating the violence and the pain, a beacon of light against the gathering Shadow.

_...watch for the hand of the Valar…_

A long, slow blink awakened him and with feline grace he unfolded from his resting posture to come to his feet, and stalked across to the railing that bordered the terrace. Running his fingertips against the carved leaves and floral motifs, he leaned upon the stone, looking deeper into the gardens of Rivendell.

They had walked there once, he and Celyndailiel together, and the memory of it – and the answering echo of the memory of walking in the gardens of Lindon with her hand upon his arm – brought the softness of a smile to his lips despite the troubles that stirred amid the recollections of his mind.

Pushing away from the terrace railing he made for the short stair down into the gardens, slowing his pace once his boots trod the softness of green grass, following the meandering pathways toward the bubbling song of water that drew him; called to him.

…_the hand of the Valar…_

The grass softened with sweet scented mosses that released their gentle fragrance as he stepped closer to the bottom of the narrow waterfall, cooler there, where the slanted reach of the late summer sunlight did not so easily reach. Both the perfume and the cooler humidity were welcome, a balm to waken the senses to delight in the sparkle and play of the tumbling water.

As a whisper, the movement of leaves to his right drew his eye away, he turned to see a trio of Elven ladies approaching the dell from another pathway through closely planted bushes and trees. He ceased his approach, and the forward most maiden pulled up short, took a moment seemingly to remember herself, and then gracefully swept in to a deep, respectful curtsey. Those others behind took cue from her and followed with their own.

"My Lord King," she said softly, "My father said that you had come to Imladris."

"Lady Arwen," Thranduil answered, for by her greeting, so did he know her, and reaching out he gently lifted her chin on the side of his hand, and by so doing signalled her to rise. As she did, he respectfully inclined his head to her in acknowledgement. "So like unto your mother."

"You know my mother, my Lord Thranduil?" she asked, sounding genuinely surprised, and with a twitch of her hand dismissed her ladies, who melted into back along the pathway by which they had approached.

"Indeed," he answered, "Your mother and the Silver Lady of Greenwood the Great were good friends, and spent much of their Maidenhood together… in one place or another." Then repeating himself he removed his gentle touch from beneath her chin. "You are very like her."

He turned then, trusting she would come to his side, walk with him and as she moved, offered his arm for her slender hand to rest upon. She accepted, laying her white hand delicately atop his robed sleeve.

"You speak kindly, my Lord," she told him, moving to lead him along meandering paths that followed the babble of the narrow waterway into which the white spray arranged itself.

"I speak truthfully, Lady Arwen," he corrected her. "Your father will no doubt tell you that he and I have seen far too much in our lifetime to indulge such otherwise baseless flattery."

"Very well," she replied softly, and then surprised him entirely as she went on, "Then I too shall speak directly."

He turned his head to look at her, raising an eyebrow as he sensed the Elven maiden had something on her mind.

"It was a dream I had," she told him, and he tipped his head in query and invitation to continue. "It has bothered me for many days, and until my father spoke of your arrival I had not clue nor inkling as to whom it referenced, only a deep sense of unease."

"You have somewhat of your father's gift?" he suggested softly, but his breathing grew shallow and a worry rose as a constricting band around his chest.

"Perhaps," she agreed, "But I have not spoken of this to my father, nor will I utter it more than once in your hearing, my Lord, for it is too harrowing for me to repeat often."

She brought him to a halt beneath a domed arbour, the arches of which were wound about with deep blue flowers amid dark green vines, and letting go of the light hold she had on his arm… instead trailed her hand through the leaves of the vines, setting their shimmering undersides trembling in the dwindling sunlight.

"There was a tall tree, the leaves of it were silvered, almost white. Beneath a white doe lay in repose. The ground around the deer began to run black with corruption, the grasses withered, and blood vines reached toward her." She half turned his way, but her eyes remained unfocussed as though she were seeing far away, or reliving her dream. "There were seven of them, twisted, cracked and as blackened as the ground upon which she lay – all except a single one of them as red as their name—"

"Arwen!"

She jumped, visibly shaken by the sudden awakening, and before Thranduil could move, mesmerised by her speaking of a too familiar nightmare, her father swept up the three low step to draw her into his embrace, enfolding her in his volumes of his robes.

"Lasto, i chen nín," he murmured softly, "Hidh ir ind lín. Hidh i fae lín. Hidh am le."

"Forgive me, Elrond," Thranduil began, but Elrond held up his hand, and shook his head.

"Her mother was often haunted by the same dream, and I myself have seen fragments of it – never the whole," he said, and as Arwen stirred in his arms, he released her and looking down at her instructed gently, "Go and see if your brothers are ready for dinner. We will meet you inside."

"Of course," she answered, then she took a breath, and turned to Thranduil. He inclined his head in a respectful bow, and she gave a light curtsey and excused herself. "My Lord."

Thranduil followed Elrond's gaze, for a moment watching Arwen as she made her way back to toward the house. Then Elrond gestured for them to take a different path and he moved to walk beside the other Elf.

"I sense this is not the first time you have heard tell of such a dream," Elrond ventured after a moment or two.

"Indeed it is not," he answered, for a moment looking down at his at the ground his feet would tread as though he feared to see the same blackening sickness of which Arwen had spoken… and which, "Celyn... many times awoke in fear of such a dream. Once so convinced of the reality of it that I had to walk with her in the gardens of Greenwood to convince her otherwise."

Elrond made a sound of thought, and Thranduil turned his head to look at the Elf Lord as they walked.

"And you?" Elrond asked at last.

"As you… fragments, if anything of it touched my mind." He shook his head and asked, "Do you believe it could have something to do with the maiden in my Halls. Your daughter said the dream had bothered her for days before my arrival here, but then when she knew I was here, she knew she should speak of it to me."

"It does seem… somewhat of a coincidence," Elrond answered hesitantly. "Tell me, when was the last time your queen suffered the vision?"

"Shortly before her… before I left for the war in the North," he answered, swallowing hard. "It began a series of restless and ill-omened visions." His voice softened then to an almost heartbreakingly soft regret, "I remember I grew quite… impatient with her… angered."

Elrond reached out and placed a comforting hand upon his arm, the action halting both their steps.

"Thranduil, you cannot blame yourself," he said.

"I should not have spoken to her as I did," he answered, shaking his head. Then with a sigh he asked, "Have you discovered anything of help?"

"At first I thought not," Elrond answered, "But now, knowing what Arwen has seen, I begin to wonder. Is this… has it always been a warning not to allow the sins of the past to smother the present beyond all recognition?"

"Meaning?" Thranduil asked.

"Meaning, my dear friend," Elrond with a chuckle that was not entirely without irony, "that while my research may have led me to err on the side of doubt that this maiden you entertain within your Halls could be Greenwood's queen returned to her rightful place, the few precedents we have for such a return to Middle Earth after death neither support nor contradict this possibility conclusively. Take Glorfindel, for example," Elrond glanced up toward the house, where he knew the Elf in question often sat before the hearth in the Hall of Fire. "He has returned exact in appearance as he was, and yet greatly blessed in his communion of Energies within Light and Life, where-as Luthien…"

"Returned as a mortal in order to remain forever with her beloved Beren," Thranduil finished, and he sighed. "But her appearance remained unaltered… unchanged before all the world."

"And yet," cautioned Elrond, "this vision, this dream that my daughter, and both of our ladies have shared, suggests… suggests mind you, some kind of warning – and my feeling is that is has to do with the very real danger that wherever she may be, her Light is not safe from the sins and sorrows of the past."

"A weighty matter for discussion just before dinner."

A deeply musical voice interrupted their conversation, and both turned to see the aforesaid Elf approach by way of a narrow stair from the lower terrace. His golden head reflected the rays of approaching evening, and his deep eyes appeared to Thranduil to hold concern for both he and Elrond.

"Forgive me," said the Elf. "I heard my name. It is good to see you, my Lord Thranduil."

"Glorfindel," Thranduil greeted him with a reserved warmth, and a respectful inclining of his head, "I had not thought to find you at Imladris."

"Alas, necessity has recently returned me to its safe repose," Glorfindel responded softly, "and to the welcome company of its Lord and Master, not to mention his sons." He turned a smile like sunrise Elrond's way, to add in a manner all but playful, "Elrohir and I were just discussing the finer points of horse husbandry after his recent scouting of Rohan."

"You encourage him too much," Elrond complained good-naturedly, and Glorfindel chuckled softly.

"Perhaps," he admitted softly after a moment, "but he is yet young, and already so weighted by the Shadows stalking Middle Earth."

"So it ever was," Thranduil murmured.

"Indeed so," Glorfindel agreed, turning to him with a serious expression on his face. "If I may, Lord Thranduil?"

By the manner of his asking, Thranduil knew that he was asking for permission to comment upon what he had overheard as he climbed the terrace steps.

"By all means," he answered, much in anticipation of hearing Glorfindel's thoughts.

"We must always bear in mind that the one constant in any within the world is the soul that inhabits a life. Presumably the one that has returned is known to some within your court? At least one that would know well the spirit of the one lost?" Glorfindel asked.

"She was reborn," he answered, his voice solemn, "Not re-embodied."

Glorfindel's eyebrows rose in surprise even as Thranduil saw he tried to school his expression, and for a moment a flush of worry rose in him, but then Glorfindel shook his head.

"Different, but I believe not entirely out of the question." He tipped his head to one side considering for a moment before he said, "A lesson… or perhaps a test embedded in this one's return. The Valar have their reasons for everything, my friend."

"But a test for her or for me?" Thranduil mused, as much to himself as to the others.

"For you?" Glorfindel asked, and at first Thranduil saw him frown in confusion and glance at Elrond, before he saw understanding dawn in the Elder Elf's face. Speaking almost with reverence he said, "I was never blessed to meet with the Silver Lady of Greenwood, yet I felt her loss keenly."

"We all did," Elrond said, and looked as though to speak on, except that Thranduil interrupted, feeling the too familiar chill returning to his troubled heart.

"And still do," he said. "Each day without her at my side, the struggle against the evil growing in Dol Guldur becomes ever emptier than despair."

"And that is why you do not trust the voice of your own heart to guide you in this?" Glorfindel asked, though truly Thranduil felt it was not a question requiring answer, and when he did not offer one, the golden haired Elf went on. "Under the circumstances your restraint is commendable, yet… err not too far upon the side of caution. There may be no other way to discover all the truth of this except in trust."

Thranduil saw Elrond glance up the remaining short stair toward the great hall of the Last Homely House, and following his gaze he noticed the subtle presence of the steward of the Lord of Imladris. Like his own steward, Lindir was timely and yet polite in summoning the gathered Lords to dinner.

"And yet," Elrond said, gesturing to Thranduil and Glofindel to ascend the steps with him, "the reoccurrence of this vision troubles me. The timing of it cannot be a coincidence, and the more I think on it, the more I cannot see it as anything other than some kind of warning."

As they reached the great hall, Thranduil could not help but wonder: of what?

* * *

Nieniriathlim found the Solar purely by accident.

The room was darkened, for finely crafted silken drapes lay closed all around the arches, shutting out the light of sun and stars alike, the former of which barely peeked between the heavy folds. Something – near akin to loneliness – drew her wandering steps to the threshold of the room and whispered in her heart for her to go within.

That first day, she dared little else than to let in the light.

Crossing the room; feeling the debris of ages rustling underfoot and brushed by the hem of her gown, she reached with an unsteady hand, and all but pregnant with anticipation, she grasped the delicately embroidered hangings and dragged the finely wrought cloths along their railings; pulling them aside. Motes of dust cascaded from within their near hallowed folds, lighting in the rays of the sun that filtered in through the uncovered archways.

Nieniriathlim suddenly felt as if the very room around her had taken a breath, and deep inside her, some thought, some memory – not of mind, but of her soul – stirred, as if from sleep and in its wake she stood, all but trembling and watched as fallen leaves were blown across the floor in the breezes she had let in.

She heard a footstep in the hall outside, and startled, doe-like, she slipped out to the now uncovered balcony, and pressed her back tight against the pillar there. Her heart pounded and her chest heaved, leaving her light-headed with the fear of being caught in trespass where she should not be, despite that Tauriel had informed her of the king's instructions that she was left free to explore the Halls as she willed.

When she returned the following day, the leaves were gone and the floor shone, it was so clean. Sweet water and other delicate morsels had been placed on a table by the balcony, and she could not help but spin around, searching for the ones watching, waiting to be caught.

No one came. Though she was certain of another presence, she never saw anyone, and after some time began a quiet exploration of the room. The furniture had been uncovered and polished, the cushions on the chaise cleaned, and the dust beaten from the drapes which, now she could see them clearly were finer even than she had at first through.

Lifting the edge one of the drapes so that she could see the image, she gazed on the scene of a woodland hunt: a deer the colour of a full moon, darted through a forest glade full of flowers opening in the first flush of spring as she passed. The trees and vines that bordered the glade were tall, and harboured life in many forms, all turned to watch the passage of the doe in flight, but her pursuer…

Blushing she dropped the edge of the drape, backing away from the image of the many tined Hart, the magnificence of which had stolen her breath, and looked around once more, absently picking up a crisp vegetable and nibbling on it as she did. The act of eating grounded her, calmed her, and she took in the rest of her surroundings. The room was warm and clean, everything uncovered and ready for use... all save one shape in the middle of the sunlit room that remained protected by a shrouding sheet.

It was the size of one of the tables, but angled, the higher edge of it furthest from the lighted archways. She felt drawn to it, but at the same time feared it greatly in one of those moments of conflict, like as came with her dreams, that rippled inside of her so badly that she fled from the room and spent the many hours sitting in the garden below, simply looking up at the balcony that she knew lay outside of the room.

The garden was some comfort to her unsettled feeling. It was delved within the crescent walls of sheltering mountain caverns, where clever husbandry ensured the life and health of the landscape within. After sitting to rest, and guided by the murmur of a song of water, she came to her feet and began to walk deeper into the garden.

She crossed the bridge that she had traversed when she had walked with the king, before he left, and this time turned away from Halls. Around her, slowly, as she walked the carefully tended and sculpted plants and flowerbeds, gave way to wilder growth – not unpleasing to the eye, but as though it had been long since Elven hands had laid caring touch to stem and leaf and bud.

A small grove appeared before her as she came from our of the shadow of the thicker bushes, a small, partial ring of low saplings, some no higher than her breast, that seemed somehow overburdened with leaves and bell-shaped flowers encircled an overshadowing and much taller tree. Some of the saplings were burdened with unopened buds whose weight bent the branches, some almost to the ground. One, in particular, at the centre of the arc drew her attention.

She approached it cautiously, as if it would bolt at the sight of her and were not deeply rooted in the loamy earth beneath her feet. Slowly she stretched out her hand, stroked her fingers over the soft, silver leaves, that fluttered at her touch, and, murmuring softly, she reached out with her senses and touched the life of the tree.

"Idh, mellon nín. U-nahtan le."

Many long moments she simple touched the tree; each individual leaf, each bud, sharing herself with the softness of the growing foliage; whispering her secrets, her fears, and confusions - her uncertainties. Holding nothing back, until with a start, her communion was interrupted by Tauriel's soft voice.

"My Lady, you should not be here," she said.

Nieniriathlim spun to face her. She had been so focussed on what she was doing she had not heard the Elven woman's approach.

"Forgive me," Tauriel spoke again, "I did not mean to startle you."

"Why?" she asked and frowned in confusion and concern, "You said that I might go where I will."

"I know," Tauriel nodded, "But only the King ventures so far this way. I had not expected you would—"

"Why?" she asked again.

"My lady?"

"Why would his majesty leave a place, so obvious in need, without tending?" she tipped her head to the side, looking toward Tauriel for answer, but the answer came from another direction entirely.

"There are many memories here," a new, and deeply rich voice – but one that she had heard before – sounded from a pathway not far off and behind her, "and they are old… and hard to bear."

As he spoke, an Elf with hair as white blonde as that of the king stepped onto the pathway. He was tall, not robed but clad in hunter's gear, though the tunic was fine cloth. His eyes were a deeper blue than the kings, but in appearance he was enough alike that he could have been none other than the son of King Thranduil himself.

Even as she recognised the prince, greeted him with the soft spoken, "Highness," and moved to dip a shallow curtsy in recognition of who he was, the garden tilted… shifted and an ache, that began in the innermost depth of her belly, spread to encompass all of her heart with a silent cry almost of anguish in a feeling to have missed so much.

It made no sense to her and yet it made perfect sense both at the same time, as her fingers remembered the downy, silken soft feel of a child's hair running through her fingers.

The tilted world upset her balance, and though it were graceful, her rising from the curtsy was uncertain enough to have the Prince speed his steps and catch her arm, even as Tauriel took a hold from the other side.

"Are you injured, my lady?" Tauriel's soft voice was laced with concern. And Nieniriathlim almost felt the Elven woman's eyes running over her, but she could only look on the sweet, soft countenance of the prince at her side, though she saw not – truly – the Elf he had become. She reached up, gently ran the very tips of her fingers down the side of his face, as memory stirred – that now familiar shifting in the pit of her stomach that left her lost and uncertain of _when_ she was.

The prince froze at her touch though he offered no objection, not in fact until she spoke again, did he move his eyes from the intense study of her face, as if he too sought… something.

"I know you," she whispered, frowning, unable to catch from where she should know him. More than having _seen_ him the day before she had been caught and made a part of the Court, almost a part of the royal household… she felt she _knew_ his face, his Light.

"I think you are mistaken, My Lady," he answered, though… his tone seemed to her to hold uncertainty, and through it she detected that made him uncomfortable. "We have never met."

"…Legolas…"

Her voice was still a whisper, and the prince frowned, pulling from her touch and instead of answering her, he looked at the captain of the guard.

"Tauriel, i chiril thartoled," his voice held concern, but something else – something she could not place. "Togo he îdh, ad toltho nestadril. I adar nín ruith qui tôl ûgarth anín."

Nieniriathlim could not help but turn her head to watch the prince as he moved within the semi-circle of trees in the grove, even as Tauriel steered her gently away.

* * *

A roiling darkness blew like a wind across the narrow bridges and sharply angled turrets of the crumbling fortress; once bright – a haven – standing now at the heart of a billowing cloud of anguish that ran like poison through the life blood of the Sylvan realm.

He looked around him as he achieved the centre of the courtyard that ended in the broken and crumbled ruin of the eastern wall as though a mighty hand had somehow torn away that part of the ancient keep.

Beyond, the air wavered, as in a great, yet unseen, fire and beyond that, darkness, but… within the darkness, a shadow blacker than night shimmered between form and formless, yet the stench of its malice reached him as he came to a halt at the jagged edge of the wounded castle. It frightened even _him._

"You sent for me, Master," the Pale Orc would not allow his fear to show. It was a weakness, and he was not weak – he was strong. The strongest.

_The light… I warned you… awakens._

"I know, my master," he answered, a touch of resentment in his answer. "But we went to the place you told us and found nothing."

_It is there…_

"Nothing, Master… only and old Elf hunter and his mate!" He was insistent, staggered as he tried to withstand the heat of anger that blew across him, all but searing his flesh. "We found nothing else… no one else. We tore the place apart!"

_It was there… Show me what you have seen!_

The anger coalesced became like the hot blade of a knife that cut into his head; a burning tongue that feasted on his memories. He roared against the pain of it, fought to hold on to what he had seen. To no avail as the monstrous malevolence was too strong.

He staggered backwards, steadied himself against a jagged piece of fallen masonry as a single image, a face resolved itself into his mind.

_Find her… kill her!_

* * *

Lasto, i chen nín – Hear [me] my child

Hidh ir ind lín – rest your mind

Hidh i fae lín – rest your soul

Hidh am le – peace upon you

Idh, mellon nín. U-nahtan le – peace, my friend, I will not hurt you.

i chiril thartoled – the lady is over-wrought

Togo he îdh ad toltho nestadril – take her to rest and send for a healer [female]

I adar nín ruith qui tôl ûgarth anín – my father will be angry if something happens to her. [lit: my father will [have] anger if ill deed comes to her.]

The quotation at the head of the chapter is the Sindarin translation of the warning that Elwing gave to Thranduil so very long ago… Watch for the hand of the Valar


End file.
